LIBRARY 


I 

SAN  DIEGO       i 


73 
AX 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH 


A   TALE 


OF 


A  LONELY  PARISH 


BY 


F.  MARION    CRAWFORD 
^ 

AUTHOR  OF  'MR.  ISAACS,'  'DR.  CLAUDIUS,'  'A  ROMAN  SINGER,' 
'  ZOROASTER,'  ETC. 


ILontion  anti  $> 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 
1886 


COPYRIGHT 

188C 
BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 


TO 


I     DEDICATE     THIS     TALE, 
A     MEAN     TOKEN     OF    A     LIFELONG     AFFECTION 

SOUUENTO,   Christmas  Day  1885. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH. 


CHAPTEE   I. 

THE  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose  would  gladly  have 
given  up  taking  pupils.  He  was  growing  old  and  his 
sight  was  beginning  to  trouble  him;  he  was  very 
weary  of  Thucydides,  of  Homer,  of  the  works  of  Mr. 
Todhunter  of  which  the  green  bindings  expressed  a  hope 
still  unrealised,  of  conic  sections — even  of  his  beloved 
Horace.  He  was  tired  of  the  stupidities  of  the  dull 
young  men  who  were  sent  to  him  because  they  could 
not  "keep  up,"  and  he  had  long  ceased  to  be  surprised 
or  interested  by  the  remarks  of  the  clever  ones  who 
were  sent  to  him  because  their  education  had  not  pre 
pared  them  for  an  English  University.  The  dull  ones 
could  never  be  made  to  understand  anything,  though 
Mr.  Ambrose  generally  succeeded  in  making  them 
remember  enough  to  matriculate,  by  dint  of  ceaseless 
repetition  and  a  system  of  memoria  technica  which 
embraced  most  things  necessary  to  the  salvation  of 
dull  youth.  The  clever  ones,  on  the  other  hand, 
generally  lacked  altogether  the  solid  foundation  of 
learning;  they  could  construe  fluently  but  did  not 
know  a  long  syllable  from  a  short  one ;  they  had 
vague  notions  of  elemental  algebra  and  no  notion  at 
S>  B 


2  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

all  of  arithmetic,  but  did  very  well  in  conic  sections ; 
they  knew  nothing  of  prosody,  but  dabbled  perpetually 
in  English  blank  verse;  altogether  they  knew  most 
of  those  things  which  they  need  not  have  known  and 
they  knew  none  of  those  things  thoroughly  which 
they  ought  to  have  known.  After  twenty  years  of 
experience  Mr.  Ambrose  ascertained  that  it  was  easier 
to  teach  a  stupid  boy  than  a  clever  one,  but  that  he 
would  prefer  not  to  teach  at  all. 

Unfortunately  the  small  tithes  of  a  small  country 
parish  in  Essex  did  not  furnish  a  sufficient  income  for 
his  needs.  He  had  been  a  Fellow  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  within  a  few  years  of  taking  his  degree, 
wherein  he  had  obtained  high  honours.  But  he  had 
married  and  had  found  himself  obliged  to  accept  the 
first  living  offered  to  him,  to  wit,  the  vicarage  of 
Billingsfield,  whereof  his  college  held  the  rectory  and 
received  the  great  tithes.  The  entire  income  he  ob 
tained  from  his  cure  never  at  any  time  exceeded  three 
hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds,  and  in  the  year  when 
it  reached  that  high  figure  there  had  been  an  unusually 
large  number  of  marriages.  It  was  not  surprising  that 
the  vicar  should  desire  to  improve  his  circumstances 
by  receiving  one  or  two  pupils.  He  had  married 
young,  as  has  been  said,  and  there  had  been  children 
born  to  him,  a  son  and  a  daughter.  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  a  good  manager  and  a  good  mother,  and  her  hus 
band  had  worked  hard.  Between  them  they  had 
brought  up  their  children  exceedingly  well.  The  son 
had  in  his  turn  entered  the  church,  had  exhibited  a 
faculty  of  pushing  his  way  which  had  not  characterised 
his  father,  had  got  a  curacy  in  a  fashionable  Yorkshire 
watering-place,  and  was  thought  to  be  on  the  way  to 
obtain  a  first-rate  living.  In  the  course  of  time,  too, 


i.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

the  daughter  had  lost  her  heart  to  a  young  physician 
who  had  brilliant  prospects  and  some  personal  fortune, 
and  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose  had  given  his 
consent  to  the  union.  Nor  had  he  been  disappointed. 
The  young  physician  had  risen  rapidly  in  his  profession, 
had  been  elected  a  member  of  the  London  College,  had 
transferred  himself  to  the  capital  and  now  enjoyed  a 
rising  practice  in  Chelsea.  So  great  was  his  success 
that  it  was  thought  he  would  before  long  purchase  the 
goodwill  of  an  old  practitioner  who  dwelt  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  Brompton  Crescent,  and  who,  it  was  said, 
might  shortly  be  expected  to  retire. 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  if  Mr.  Ambrose's  life 
had  not  been  very  brilliant,  his  efforts  had  on  the  whole 
been  attended  with  success.  His  children  were  both 
happy  and  independent  and  no  longer  needed  his 
assistance  or  support;  his  wife,  the  excellent  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  enjoyed  unfailing  health  and  good  spirits ; 
he  himself  was  still  vigorous  and  active,  and  as  yet 
found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  couple  of  pupils  at 
two  hundred  pounds  a  year  each,  for  he  had  early  got 
a  reputation  for  successfully  preparing  young  gentlemen 
with  whom  no  other  private  tutor  could  do  anything, 
and  he  had  established  the  scale  of  his  prices  accord 
ingly.  It  is  true  that  he  had  sacrificed  other  things 
for  the  sake  of  imparting  tuition,  and  more  than  once 
he  had  hesitated  and  asked  himself  whether  he  should 
go  on.  Indeed,  when  he  graduated,  it  was  thought  that 
he  would  soon  make  himself  remarkable  by  the  publi 
cation  of  some  scholarly  work ;  it  was  foretold  that  he 
might  become  a  famous  preacher ;  it  was  asserted  that 
he  was  a  general  favourite  with  the  Fellows  of  Trinity 
and  would  get  a  proportionately  fat  living — but  he 
had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  of  allowing  his 


4  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

chances  of  fortune  to  slip  from  him.  He  had  given 
up  his  fellowship,  had  married  and  had  accepted  an 
insignificant  country  living.  He  asked  nothing,  and 
he  got  nothing.  He  never  attracted  the  notice  of  his 
bishop  hy  doing  anything  extraordinary,  nor  the  notice 
of  the  public  by  appearing  in  print.  He  baptized, 
married  and  buried  the  people  of  Billingsfield,  Essex, 
and  he  took  private  pupils.  He  wrote  a  sermon  once 
a  fortnight,  and  revised  old  ones  for  the  other  three 
occasions  out  of  four.  His  sermons  were  good  in  their 
way,  but  were  intended  for  simple  folk  and  did  no 
justice  to  the  powers  he  had  certainly  possessed  in  his 
youth.  Indeed,  as  years  went  on,  the  dry  routine  of 
his  life  produced  its  inevitable  effect  upon  his  mind, 
and  the  productions  of  Mr.  Ambrose  grew  to  be  ex 
ceedingly  commonplace ;  and  the  more  commonplace 
he  became,  the  more  he  regretted  having  done  so  little 
with  the  faculties  he  enjoyed,  and  the  more  weary  he 
became  of  the  daily  task  of  galvanising  the  dull  minds 
of  his  pupils  into  a  spasmodic  activity,  just  sufficient  to 
leap  the  ditch  that  separates  the  schoolboy  from  the 
undergraduate.  He  had  not  only  educated  his  children 
and  seen  them  provided  for  in  the  world ;  he  had  also 
saved  a  little  money,  and  he  had  insured  his  life  for 
five  hundred  pounds.  There  was  no  longer  any 
positive  necessity  for  continuing  to  teach,  as  there 
had  been  thirty  years  ago,  when  he  first  married. 

So  much  for  the  circumstances  of  the  Eeverend 
Augustin  Ambrose.  Personally  he  was  a  man  of  good 
presence,  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  active  and 
strong,  of  a  ruddy  complexion  with  smooth,  thick  gray 
hair  and  a  plentiful  gray  beard.  He  shaved  his  upper 
lip  however,  greatly  to  the  detriment  of  his  appear 
ance,  for  the  said  upper  lip  was  very  long  and  the 


I.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  5 

absence  of  the  hirsute  appendage  showed  a  very  large 
mouth  with  very  thin  lips,  generally  compressed  into 
an  expression  of  remarkable  obstinacy.  His  nose  was 
both  broad  and  long  and  his  gray  eyes  were  bright 
and  aggressive  in  their  glance.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
Mr.  Ambrose  was  combative  by  nature,  but  his  fighting 
instincts  seem  to  have  been  generally  employed  in  the 
protection  of  rights  he  already  possessed,  rather  than 
in  pushing  on  in  search  of  fresh  fields  of  activity.  He 
was  an  active  man,  fond  of  walking  alone  and  able  to 
walk  any  distance  he  pleased ;  a  charitable  man  with 
the  charity  peculiar  to  people  of  exceedingly  economical 
tendencies  and  possessing  small  fixed  incomes.  He 
would  give  himself  vast  personal  trouble  to  assist 
distress,  as  though  aware  that  since  he  could  not  give 
much  money  to  the  poor  he  was  bound  to  give  the 
best  of  himself.  The  good  Mrs.  Ambrose  seconded 
him  in  this  as  in  all  his  works ;  labouring  hard  when 
hard  work  could  do  any  good,  but  giving  material 
assistance  with  a  sparing  hand.  It  sufficiently  defines 
the  two  to  say  that  although  many  a  surly  labourer  in 
the  parish  grumbled  that  the  vicar  and  his  wife  were 
"oncommon  near,"  when  money  was  concerned,  there 
was  nevertheless  no  trouble  in  which  their  aid  was 
not  invoked  and  their  advice  asked.  But  the  indigent 
labourer  not  uncommonly  retrieved  his  position  by 
asking  a  shilling  of  one  of  the  young  gentlemen  at 
the  vicarage,  who  were  generally  open-handed,  good- 
looking  boys,  blessed  with  a  great  deal  more  money 
than  brains. 

At  the  time  when  this  tale  opens,  however,  it 
chanced  that  one  of  the  two  young  gentlemen  at  the 
vicarage  was  by  no  means  in  the  position  peculiar  to 
the  majority  of  youths  who  sought  the  good  offices 


6  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

of  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose.  John  Short,  aged 
eighteen,  was  in  all  respects  a  remarkable  contrast  to 
his  companion  the  Honourable  Cornelius  Angleside. 
John  Short  was  apparently  very  poor ;  the  Honourable 
Cornelius  on  the  other  hand  had  plenty  of  money. 
Short  was  undeniably  clever;  Angleside  was  uncom 
monly  dull.  Short  was  the  son  of  a  decayed  literary 
man ;  Angleside  was  the  son  of  a  nobleman.  Short 
was  by  nature  a  hard  worker ;  Angleside  was  amaz 
ingly  idle.  Short  meant  to  do  something  in  the 
world ;  Angleside  had  early  determined  to  do  nothing. 
It  would  not  be  easy  to  define  the  reasons  which 
induced  Mr.  Ambrose  to  receive  John  Short  under  his 
roof.  He  had  never  before  taken  a  pupil  on  any  but 
his  usual  terms,  and  at  his  time  of  life  it  was  strange 
that  he  should  break  through  the  rule.  But  here  his 
peculiar  views  of  charity  came  into  play.  Short's 
father  had  been  his  own  chum  at  school,  and  his  friend 
at  college,  but  had  failed  to  reap  any  substantial 
benefits  from  his  education.  He  had  been  a  scholar 
in  his  way,  but  his  way  had  not  been  the  way  of 
other  scholars,  and  when  he  had  gone  up  for  honours 
he  had  got  a  bad  third  in  classics.  He  would  not 
enter  the  church,  he  could  not  enter  the  law,  he  had 
no  interest  whatever,  and  he  found  himself  naturally 
thrust  into  the  profession  of  literature.  For  a  time  he 
had  nearly  starved  ;  then  he  had  met  with  some  success 
and  had,  of  course,  married  without  hesitation ;  after 
this  he  had  had  more  misfortunes.  His  wife  had  died 
leaving  him  an  only  son,  whom  in  course  of  time  he 
had  sent  to  school.  But  school  was  too  expensive  and 
he  had  reluctantly  taken  the  boy  home  again.  It 
was  in  a  fit  of  despair  that  he  wrote  to  his  old  friend 
Augustin  Ambrose,  asking  his  advice..  The  Eeverend 


I.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  7 

Augustin  considered  the  matter  with  the  assistance  of 
his  wife,  and  being  charitable  souls,  they  determined 
that  they  must  help  Short  to  educate  his  son.  Ac 
cordingly  the  vicar  •  of  Billingsfield  wrote  to  his  old 
friend  to  say  that  if  he  could  manage  to  pay  a  small 
sum  for  the  lad's  board,  he,  the  vicar,  would  complete 
the  boy's  education,  so  that  he  might  at  least  have 
a  chance  in  the  world.  Short  accepted  the  offer  with 
boundless  gratitude  and  had  hitherto  not  failed  to  pay 
the  vicar  the  small  sum  agreed  upon.  The  result  of 
all  this  was  that  Mr.  Ambrose  had  grown  very  fond  of 
John,  and  John  had  derived  great  advantage  from  his 
position.  He  possessed  precisely  what  his  father  had 
lacked,  namely  a  strong  bent  in  one  direction,  and 
there  was  no  doubt  that  he  would  distinguish  himself 
if  he  had  a  chance.  That  chance  the  vicar  had  deter 
mined  to  give  him.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
his  old  friend's  son  should  go  to  college  and  show 
what  he  was  able  to  do.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to 
manage,  but  the  vicar  had  friends  in  Cambridge  and 
John  had  brains ;  moreover  the  vicar  and  John  were 
both  very  obstinate  people  and  bad  both  determined 
upon  the  same  plan,  so  that  there  was  a  strong 
probability  of  their  succeeding. 

John  Short  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  neither 
particularly  good-looking  nor  by  any  means  the  re 
verse.  He  had  what  bankers  commonly  call  a  lucky 
face ;  that  is  to  say  he  had  a  certain  very  prepossess 
ing  look  of  honesty  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  a  certain  look 
of  energetic  goodwill  in  his  features.  When  he  was 
much  older  and  wore  a  beard  he  passed  for  a  hand 
some  man,  but  at  eighteen  he  could  only  boast  the 
smallest  of  fair  whiskers,  and  when  anybody  took  the 
trouble  to  look  long  at  him,  which  was  not  often, 


8  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.        CHAP. 

the  verdict  was  that  his  jaw  was  too  heavy  and  his 
mouth  too  obstinate.  In  complexion  he  was  fair,  and 
healthy  to  look  at,  generally  sunburned  in  the  summer, 
for  he  had  a  habit  of  reading  out  of  doors ;  his  laugh 
was  very  pleasant,  though  it  was  rarely  heard ;  his 
eyes  were  honest  but  generally  thoughtful ;  his  frame 
was  sturdy  and  already  inclined  rather  to  strength 
than  to  graceful  proportion ;  his  head  matched  his 
body  well,  being  broad  and  well-shaped  with  plenty  of 
prominence  over  the  brows  and  plenty  of  fulness 
above  the  temples.  He  had  a  way  of  standing  as 
though  it  would  not  be  easy  to  move  him,  and  a  way 
of  expressing  his  opinion  which  seemed  to  challenge 
contradiction.  But  he  was  not  a  combative  boy.  If 
any  one  argued  with  him,  it  soon  appeared  that  he 
was  not  really  argumentative,  but  merely  enthusiastic. 
It  was  not  necessary  to  agree  with  him,  and  there 
was  small  use  in  contradicting  him.  The  more  he 
talked  the  more  enthusiastic  he  grew  as  he  developed 
his  own  views ;  until  seeing  that  he  was  not  under 
stood  or  that  he  was  merely  laughed  at,  he  would 
end  his  discourse  with  a  merry  laugh  at  himself,  or 
a  shy  apology  for  having  talked  so  much.  But  the 
vicar  assured  his  wife  that  the  boy's  Greek  and  Latin 
verses  were  something  very  extraordinary  indeed,  and 
much  better  than  his  own  in  his  best  days.  For 
John  was  passionately  fond  of  the  classics  and  did 
not  propose  to  acquire  any  more  mathematical  know 
ledge -than  was  strictly  necessary  for  his  matriculation 
and  "  little-go."  He  meant  to  be  a  famous  scholar  and 
he  meant  to  get  a  fellowship  at  his  college  in  order 
to  be  perfectly  independent  and  to  help  his  father. 

John  was  a  constant  source  of  wonder  to  his  com 
panion    the    Honourable    Cornelius    Angleside,    who 


I.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  9 

remembered  to  have  seen  fellows  of  that  sort  at 
Eton  but  had  never  got  near  enough  to  them  to 
know  what  they  were  really  like.  Cornelius  had  a 
vague  idea  that  there  was  some  trick  about  appearing 
to  know  so  much  and  that  those  reading  chaps  were 
awful  humbugs.  How  the  trick  was  performed  he  did 
not  venture  to  explain,  but  he  was  as  firmly  persuaded 
that  it  was  managed  by  some  species  of  conjuring  as 
that  Messrs.  Maskelyne  and  Cook  performed  their 
wonders  by  sleight  of  hand.  That  one  human  brain 
should  actually  contain  the  amount  of  knowledge  John 
Short  appeared  to  possess  was  not  credible  to  the 
Honourable  Cornelius,  and  the  latter  spent  more  of  his 
time  in  trying  to  discover  how  John  "  did  it "  than  in 
trying  to  "  do  it "  himself.  Nevertheless,  young 
Angleside  liked  Short  after  his  own  fashion,  and  Short 
did  not  dislike  Angleside.  John's  father  had  given 
him  to  understand  that  as  a  general  rule  persons  of 
wealth  and  good  birth  were  a  set  of  overbearing, 
purse-proud  bullies,  w,ho  considered  men  of  genius  to 
be  little  better  than  a  set  of  learned  monkeys,  certainly 
not  good  enough  to  black  their  boots.  For  John's 
father  in  his  misfortunes  had  imbibed  sundry  radical 
notions  formerly  peculiar  to  poor  literary  men,  and 
not  yet  altogether  extinct,  and  he  had  accordingly 
warned  his  son  that  all  mammon  was  the  mammon  of 
unrighteousness,  and  that  the  people  who  possessed  it 
were  the  natural  enemies  of  people  who  had  to  live 
by  their  brains.  But  John  had  very  soon  discovered 
that  though  Cornelius  Angleside  possessed  the  three 
qualifications  for  perdition,  in  the  shape  of  birth, 
wealth  and  ignorance,  against  which  his  poor  father 
railed  unceasingly,  he  succeeded  nevertheless  in 
making  himself  very  good  company.  Angleside  was 


10  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

not  overbearing,  he  was  not  purse-proud  and  he  was 
not  a  bully.  On  the  contrary  he  was  unobtrusive 
and  sufficiently  simple  in  manner,  and  he  certainly 
never  mentioned  the  subject  of  his  family  or  fortune ; 
John  rather  pitied  him,  on  the  whole,  until  he  began 
to  discover  that  Angleside  looked  up  to  him  on 
account  of  his  mental  superiority,  and  then  John, 
being  very  human,  began  to  like  him. 

The  life  at  the  vicarage  of  Billingsfield,  Essex,  was 
not  remarkable  for  anything  but  its  extreme  regularity. 
Prayers,  breakfast,  work,  lunch,  a  walk,  work,  dinner, 
work,  prayers,  bed.  The  programme  never  varied, 
save  as  the  seasons  introduced  some  change  in  the 
hours  of  the  establishment.  The  vicar,  who  was  fond 
of  a  little  gardening  and  amused  himself  with  a  variety 
of  experiments  in  the  laying  of  asparagus  beds,  found 
occasional  excitement  in  the  pursuit  of  a  stray  cat 
which  had  managed  to  climb  his  wire  netting  and  get 
at  the  heads  of  his  favourite  vegetable,  in  which  thrill 
ing  chase  he  was  usually  aided  by  an  old  brown 
retriever  answering,  when  he  answered  at  all,  to  the 
name  of  Carlo,  and  by  the  Honourable  Cornelius,  whose 
skill  in  throwing  stones  was  as  phenomenal  as  his 
ignorance  of  Latin  quantities.  The  play  was  invari 
ably  opened  by  old  Eeynolds,  the  ancient  and  bow- 
legged  gardener,  groom  and  man  of  all  work  at  the 
vicarage. 

"  Please  sir,  there's  Simon  Gunn's  cat  in  the  sparrer- 
grass."  The  information  was  accompanied  by  a  sort  of 
chuckle  of  evil  satisfaction  which  at  once  roused  the 
sleeping  passions  of  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose. 

"Dear  me,  Eeynolds,  then  why  don't  you  turn  her 
out  ?"  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  the  excellent 
vicar  would  spring  from  his  seat  and  rush  down  the 


1.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          11 

lawn  in  the  direction  of  the  beds,  closely  followed  by 
the  Honourable  Cornelius,  who  picked  up  stones  from 
the  gravel  path  as  he  ran,  and  whose  long  legs  made 
short  work  of  the  iron  fence  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.  Meanwhile  the  aged  Reynolds  let  Carlo  loose 
from  the  yard  and  the  hunt  was  prosecuted  with  great 
boldness  and  ingenuity.  The  vicar's  object  was  to  get 
the  cat  out  of  the  asparagus  bed  as  soon  as  possible 
without  hurting  her,  for  he  was  a  humane  man  and 
would  not  have  hurt  a  fly.  Cornelius,  on  the  other 
hand,  desired  the  game  to  last  as  long  as  possible,  and 
endeavoured  to  prevent  the  cat's  escape  by  always 
hitting  the  wire  netting  at  the  precise  spot  where  she 
was  trying  to  get  over  it.  In  this  way  he  would  often 
succeed  in  getting  as  much  as  half  an  hour's  respite 
from  Horace.  At  last  the  vicar,  panting  with  his 
exertions  and  bathed  in  perspiration,  would  protest 
against  the  form  of  assault. 

"Really,  Angleside,"  he  would  say,  "I  believe  1 
could  throw  straighter  myself.  I'm  quite  sure  Carlo 
can  get  her  out  if  you  leave  him  alone." 

Whereupon  Cornelius  would  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  look  on,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  when  the 
cat  had  been  driven  out  and  the  vicar's  back  was 
turned,  he  would  slip  a  sixpence  into  old  Reynold's 
hand,  and  follow  his  tutor  reluctantly  back  to  the 
study.  Whether  there  was  any  connection  between 
the  cat  and  the  sixpence  is  uncertain,  but  during  the 
last  months  of  Angleside's  stay  at  the  vicarage  the 
ingenuity  of  Simon  Gunn's  yellow  cat  in  getting  over 
the  wire  netting  reached  such  a  pitch  that  the  vicar 
began  to  prepare  a  letter  to  the  Bishop  Stortford 
Chronicle  on  the  relations  generally  existing  between 
cats  and  asparagus  beds. 


12  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

Another  event  in  the  life  of  the  vicarage  was  the 
periodical  lameness  of  the  vicar's  strawberry  mare, 
followed  by  the  invariable  discovery  that  George 
Horsnell  the  village  blacksmith  had  run  a  nail  into 
her  foot  when  he  shoed  her  last.  Invariably,  also,  the 
vicar  threatened  that  in  future  the  mare  should  be 
shod  by  Hawkins  the  rival  -blacksmith,  who  was  a 
dissenter  and  had  consequently  never  been  employed 
by  the  vicarage.  Moreover  it  was  generally  rumoured 
once  every  year  that  old  Nat  Barker,  the  octogenarian 
cripple  who  had  not  been  able  to  stand  upon  his  feet 
for  twenty  years,  was  at  the  point  of  death.  He 
invariably  recovered,  however,  in  time  to  put  in  an 
appearance  by  proxy  at  the  distribution  of  a  certain 
dole  of  a  loaf  and  a  shilling  on  boxing  day.  It  was 
told  also  that  in  remote  times  the  Puckeridge  hounds 
had  once  come  that  way  and  that  the  fox  had  got  into 
the  churchyard.  A  repetition  of  this  stirring  event 
was  anxiously  looked  for  during  many  years,  every  time 
that  the  said  pack  met  within  ten  miles  of  Billings- 
field,  but  hitherto  it  had  been  looked  for  in  vain.  On 
the  whole  the  life  at  the  vicarage  was  not  eventful, 
and  the  studies  of  the  two  young  men  who  imbibed 
learning  at  the  feet  of  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose 
were  rarely  interrupted. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  herself  represented  the  feminine 
element  in  the  society  of  the  little  place.  The  new 
doctor  was  a  strange  man,  suspected  of  being  a  free 
thinker,  and  he  was  not  married.  The  Hall,  for  there 
was  a  Hall  at  Billingsfield,  was  uninhabited,  and  had 
been  uninhabited  for  years.  The  estate  which  belonged 
to  it  was  unimportant  and  moreover  was  in  Chancery 
and  seemed  likely  to  stay  there,  for  reasons  no  one 
ever  mentioned  at  Billingsfield,  because  no  one  knew 


I.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          13 

anything  about  them.  From  time  to  time  a  legal 
looking  personage  drove  up  to  the  Duke's  Head,  which 
was  kept  by  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey,  who  was  also  under 
taker  to  the  parish,  and  which  was  thought  to  be  a  very 
good  inn.  The  legal  personage  stayed  a  day  or  two, 
spending  most  of  his  time  at  the  Hall  and  in  driving 
about  to  the  scattered  farms  which  represented  the 
estate,  but  he  never  came  to  the  vicarage,  nor  did  the 
vicar  ever  seem  to  know  what  he  was  doing  nor  why 
he  came.  "  He  came  on  business  " — that  was  all  that 
anybody  knew.  His  business  was  to  collect  rents,  of 
course ;  but  what  he  did  with  them,  no  one  was  bold 
enough  to  surmise.  The  estate  was  in  Chancery,  it 
was  said,  and  the  definition  conveyed  about  as  much 
to  the  mind  of  the  average  inhabitant  of  Billings- 
field,  as  if  he  had  been  informed  that  the  moon 
was  in  perigee  or  the  sun  in  Scorpio.  The  practical 
result  of  its  being  in  Chancery  was  that  no  one  lived 
there. 

John  Short  liked  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  the  Honourable 
Cornelius  behaved  to  her  with  well  bred  affability. 
She  always  said  Cornelius  had  very  nice  manners,  as 
indeed  he  had  and  had  need  to  have.  Occasionally, 
perhaps  four  or  five  times  in  the  year,  the  Eeverend 
Edward  Pewlay,  who  had  what  he  called  a  tenor  voice, 
and  his  wife,  who  played  the  pianoforte  very  fairly, 
came  over  to  assist  at  a  Penny  Eeading.  He  lived 
"  over  Harlow  way,"  as  the  natives  expressed  it,  he 
was  what  was  called  in  those  parts  a  rabid  Anglican, 
because  he  preached  in  his  surplice  and  had  services 
on  the  Saints'  days,  and  the  vicar  of  Billingsfield  did 
not  sympathise  in  his  views.  Nevertheless  he  was 
very  useful  at  Penny  Eeadings,  and  on  one  of  these 
occasions  produced  a  very  ingenious  ghost  for  the 


14  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

delectation  of  the  rustics,  by  means  of  a  piece  of  plate 
glass  and  a  couple  of  lamps. 

There  had  indeed  been  festivities  at  the  vicarage  to 
which  as  many  as  three  clergymen's  wives  had  been 
invited,  but  these  were  rare  indeed.  For  months  at 
a  time  Mrs.  Ambrose  reigned  in  undisputed  possession 
of  the  woman's  social  rights  in  Billingsfield.  She  was 
an  excellent  person  in  every  way.  She  had  once  been 
handsome  and  even  now  she  was  fine-looking,  of  goodly 
stature,  if  also  of  goodly  weight ;  rosy,  even  rubicund, 
in  complexion,  and  rotund  of  feature ;  looking  at  you 
rather  severely  out  of  her  large  gray  eyes,  but  able  to 
smile  very  cheerfully  and  to  show  an  uncommonly 
good  set  of  teeth ;  twisting  her  thick  gray  hair  into  a 
small  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head  and  then  covering 
it  with  a  neatly  made  cap  which  she  considered  be 
coming  to  her  time  of  life ;  dressed  always  with  extreme 
simplicity  and  neatness,  glorying  in  her  good  sense  and 
in  her  stout  shoes ;  speaking  of  things  which  she  called 
"  neat "  with  a  devotional  admiration  and  expressing  the 
extremest  height  of  her  disapprobation  when  she  said 
anything  was  "  very  untidy."  A  motherly  woman,  a 
practical  woman,  a  good  housekeeper  and  a  good  wife, 
careful  of  small  things  because  generally  only  small 
things  came  in  her  way,  devotedly  attached  to  her 
husband,  whom  she  regarded  with  perfect  justice  as  the 
best  man  of  her  acquaintance  adding,  however,  with 
somewhat  precipitous  rashness  that  he  was  the  best 
man  in  the  world.  She  took  also  a  great  interest  in 
his  pupils  and  busied  herself  mightily  with  their  wel 
fare.  Since  the  arrival  of  the  new  doctor  who  was 
suspected  of  free -thinking,  she  had  shown  a  strong 
leaning  towards  homoaopathy,  and  prescribed  small 
pellets  of  belladonna  for  the  Honourable  Cornelius's 


I.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          15 

cold  and  infinitesimal  drops  of  aconite  for  John  Short's 
headaches,  until  she  observed  that  John  never  had  a 
headache  unless  he  had  worked  too  much,  and  Angle- 
side  always  had  a  cold  when  he  did  not  want  to  work 
at  all.  Especially  in  the  department  of  the  commis 
sariat  she  showed  great  activity,  and  the  reputation  the 
vicar  had  acquired  for  feeding  his  pupils  well  had  per 
haps  more  to  do  with  his  success  than  he  imagined. 
She  was  never  tired  of  repeating  that  Englishmen 
needed  plenty  of  good  food,  and  she  had  no  principles 
which  she  did  not  practise.  She  even  thought  it  right 
to  lecture  young  Angleside  upon  his  idleness  at  stated 
intervals.  He  always  replied  with  great  gentleness 
that  he  was  awfully  stupid,  you  know,  and  Mr. 
Ambrose  was  awfully  good  about  it  and  he  hoped  he 
should  not  be  pulled  when  he  went  up.  And  strange 
to  relate  he  actually  passed  his  examination  and  matri 
culated,  to  his  own  immense  astonishment  and  to  the 
no  small  honour  and  glory  of  the  Reverend  Augustin 
Ambrose,  vicar  of  Billingsfield,  Essex.  But  when 
that  great  day  arrived  certain  events  occurred  which 
are  worthy  to  be  chronicled  and  remembered. 


16  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE   II. 

IN  the  warm  June  weather  young  Angleside  went 
up  to  pass  his  examination  for  entrance  at  Trinity. 
There  is  nothing  particularly  interesting  or  worthy 
of  note  in  that  simple  process,  though  at  that  time 
the  custom  of  imposing  an  examination  had  only  been 
recently  imported  from  Oxford.  For  one  whole  day 
forty  or  fifty  young  fellows  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
sat  at  the  long  dining-tables  in  the  beautiful  old  hall 
and  wrote  as  busily  as  they  could,  answering  the  printed 
questions  before  them,  and  eyeing  each  other  curiously 
from  time  to  time.  The  weather  was  warm  and  sultry, 
the  trees  were  all  in  full  leaf  and  Cambridge  was 
deserted.  Only  a  few  hard-reading  men,  who  stayed 
up  during  the  Long,  wandered  out  with  books  at  the 
backs  of  the  colleges  or  strayed  slowly  through  the 
empty  courts,  objects  of  considerable  interest  to  the 
youths  who  had  come  up  for  the  entrance  examina 
tion — chiefly  pale  men  in  rather  shabby  clothes  with 
old  gowns  and  battered  caps,  and  a  general  appearance 
of  being  the  worse  for  wear. 

Angleside  had  been  in  Cambridge  before  and  conse 
quently  lost  no  time  in  returning  to  Billingsfield  when 
the  examination  was  over.  Short  was  to  spend  the 
summer  at  the  vicarage,  reading  hard  until  the  term 
began,  when  he  was  to  go  up  and  compete  for  a  minor 


ii.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          17 

scholarship ;  Angleside  was  to  wait  until  he  heard 
whether  he  had  passed,  and  was  then  going  abroad 
to  meet  his  father  and  to  rest  from  the  extreme  exer 
tion  of  mastering  the  "  Apology  "  and  the  first  books 
of  the  "  Memorabilia."  John  drove  over  to  meet  the 
Honourable  Cornelius,  who  was  in  a  terrible  state  of 
anxiety  and  left  him  no  peace  on  the  way  asking  him 
again  and  again  to  repeat  the  answers  to  the  questions 
which  had  been  proposed,  reckoning  up  the  ones  he 
had  answered  wrong  and  the  ones  he  thought  he  might 
have  answered  right,  and  coming  each  time  to  a  differ 
ent  conclusion,  finally  lighting  a  huge  brierwood  pipe 
and  swearing  "  that  it  was  a  beastly  shame  to  subject 
human  beings  to  such  awful  torture."  John  calmed 
him  by  saying  he  fancied  Cornelius  had  "  got  through  "; 
for  John's  words  were  a  species  of  gospel  to  Cornelius. 
By  the  time  they  reached  the  vicarage  Angleside  felt 
sanguine  of  his  success. 

The  vicar  was  not  visible.  It  was  a  strange  and 
unheard  of  thing — there  were  visitors  in  the  drawing- 
room.  This  doubtless  accounted  for  the  fact  that  the 
fly  from  the  Duke's  Head  was  standing  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road.  The  two  young  men  went 
into  their  study,  which  was  on  the  ground  floor  and 
opened  upon  the  passage  which  led  to  the  draw 
ing-room  from  the  little  hall.  Angleside  remarked 
that  by  leaving  the  door  open  they  would  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  visitor  when  he  went  out.  But  the 
visitor  stayed  long.  The  curiosity  of  the  two  was 
wrought  up  to  a  high  pitch ;  it  was  many  months 
since  there  had  been  a  real  visitor  at  the  vicarage. 
Angleside  suggested  going  out  and  finding  old  Eey- 
nolds — he  always  knew  everything  that  was  going 
on. 


18  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAt. 

"  If  we  only  wait  long  enough,"  said  Short  philoso 
phically,  "they  are  sure  to  come  out." 

"  Perhaps,"  returned  Cornelius  rather  doubtfully. 

"They"  did  come  out.  The  drawing-room  door 
opened  and  there  was  a  sound  of  voices.  It  was  a 
woman's  voice,  and  a  particularly  sweet  voice,  too. 
Still  no  one  came  down  the  passage.  The  lady 
seemed  to  be  lingering  in  taking  her  leave.  Then 
there  was  a  sound  of  small  feet  and  suddenly  a  little 
girl  stood  before  the  open  door  of  the  study,  looking 
wonderingly  at  the  two  young  men.  Short  thought 
he  had  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  child.  She  could 
not  have  been  more  than  seven  or  eight  years  old,  and 
was  not  tall  for  her  age ;  a  delicate  little  figure,  all  in 
black,  with  long  brown  curls  upon  her  shoulders,  flow 
ing  abundantly  from  beneath  a  round  black  sailor's 
hat  that  was  set  far  back  upon  her  head.  The  child's 
face  was  rather  pale  than  very  fair,  of  a  beautiful 
transparent  paleness,  with  the  least  tinge  of  colour  in 
the  cheeks ;  her  great  violet  eyes  gazed  wonderingly 
into  the  study,  and  her  lips  parted  in  childlike  uncer 
tainty,  while  her  little  gloved  hand  rested  on  the 
door-post  as  though  to  get  a  sense  of  security  from 
something  so  solid. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Both  the  young 
fellows  smiled  at  the  child  unconsciously.  Perhaps 
she  thought  they  were  laughing  at  her;  she  turned 
and  ran  away  again ;  then  passed  a  second  time,  steal 
ing  a  long  glance  at  the  two  strangers,  but  followed 
immediately  by  the  lady,  who  was  probably  her  mother, 
and  whose  voice  had  been  heard  for  the  last  few 
moments.  The  lady,  too,  glanced  in  as  she  went  by, 
and  John  Short  lost  his  heart  then  and  there ;  not 
that  the  lady  was  beautiful  as  the  little  girl  was,  but 


II.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          19 

because  there  was  something  in  her  face,  in  her  figure, 
in  her  whole  carriage,  that  moved  the  boy  suddenly 
as  she  looked  at  him  and  sent  the  blood  rushing  to 
his  cheeks  and  forehead. 

She  seemed  young,  but  he  never  thought  of  her  age. 
In  reality  she  was  nine -and -twenty  years  old  but 
looked  younger.  She  was  pale,  far  paler  than  the 
little  girl,  but  she  had  those  same  violet  eyes,  large, 
deep  and  sorrowful,  beneath  dark,  smooth  .eyebrows 
that  arched  high  and  rose  a  little  in  the  middle. 
Her  mouth  was  perhaps  large  for  her  face  but  her  full 
lips  curved  gently  and  seemed  able  to  smile,  though 
she  was  not  smiling.  Her  nose  was  perhaps  too  small 
— her  face  was  far  from  faultless — and  it  had  the 
slightest  tendency  to  turn  up  instead  of  down,  but 
it  was  so  delicately  modelled  that  an  artist  would  have 
pardoned  it  that  deviation  from  the  classic.  Thick 
brown  hair  waved  across  her  white  forehead  and  was 
hidden  under  the  black  bonnet  and  the  veil  thrown 
back  over  it.  She  was  dressed  in  black  and  the  close- 
fitting  gown  showed  off  with  unconscious  vanity  the 
lines  of  a  perfectly  moulded  and  perfectly  supple 
figure.  But  it  was  especially  her  eyes  which  at 
tracted  John's  sudden  attention  at  that  first  glance, 
her  violet  eyes,  tender,  sad,  almost  pathetic,  seeming  to 
ask  sympathy  and  marvellously  able  to  command  it. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment  that  she  paused.  Then 
came  the  vicar,  following  her  from  the  drawing-room, 
and  all  three  went  on.  Presently  Short  heard  the 
front  door  open  and  Mr.  Ambrose  shouted  to  the  fly. 

"  Muggins  !  Muggins  ! " 

No  one  had  ever  been  able  to  say  why  Abraham 
Boosey,  the  publican,  had  christened  his  henchman 
with  an  appellation  so  vulgar,  to  say  the  least  of  it 


20  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CIIAP. 

— so  amazingly  cacophonous.  The  man's  real  name 
was  plain  Charles  Bird ;  but  Abraham  Boosey  had 
christened  him  Muggins  and  Muggins  he  remained. 
Muggins  had  had  some  beer  and  was  asleep,  for  the 
afternoon  was  hot  and  he  had  anticipated  his  "  fours." 

Short  saw  his  opportunity  and  darted  out  of  the 
study  to  the  hall  where  the  lady  and  her  little  girl 
were  waiting  while  the  vicar  tried  to  rouse  the  driver 
of  the  fly  by  shouting  at  him.  John  blushed  again  as 
he  passed  close  to  the  woman  with  the  sad  eyes ;  he 
could  not  tell  why,  but  the  blood  mounted  to  the  very 
roots  of  his  hair,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt  very 
foolish. 

"  I'll  wake  him  up,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  said,  running 
out  hatless  into  the  summer's  sun. 

"  Wake  up,  you  lazy  beggar  !  "  he  shouted  in  the 
ear  of  the  sleeping  Muggins,  shaking  him  violently  by 
the  arm  as  he  stood  upon  the  wheel.  Muggins 
grunted  something  and  smiled  rather  idiotically.  "  It 
was  only  the  young  gentleman's  play,"  he  would  have 
said.  Bless  you !  he  did  not  mind  being  shaken  and 
screamed  at !  He  slowly  turned  his  horses  and 
brought  the  fly  up  to  the  door.  John  walked  back 
and  stood  waiting. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  lady  in  a  voice  that  made 
his  heart  jump,  as  she  came  out  from  under  the  porch 
and  the  vicar  "helped  her  to  get  in.  Then  it  was  the 
turn  of  the  little  girl. 

"  Good-bye,  my  dear,"  said  the  vicar  kindly  as  he 
took  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  child.  Then  she  hesitated 
and  looked  at  John,  who  was  standing  beside  the 
clergyman.  "Good-bye,"  she  repeated,  holding  out 
her  little  hand  shyly  towards  him.  John  took  it 


II.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  21 

and  grew  redder  than  ever  as  he  felt  that  the 
lady  was  watching  him.  Then  the  little  girl  blushed 
and  laughed  in  her  small  embarrassment,  and  climbed 
into  the  carriage. 

"  You  will  write,  then  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ambrose  as  he 
shut  the  door. 

"  Yes — and  thank  you  again.  You  are  very,  very 
kind  to  me,"  answered  the  lady,  and  John  thought 
that  as  she  spoke  there  were  tears  in  her  voice.  She 
seemed  very  unhappy  and  to  John  she  seemed  very 
beautiful.  Muggins  cracked  his  whip  and  the  fly 
moved  off,  leaving  the  vicar  and  his  pupil  standing 
together  at  the  iron  wicket  gate  before  the  house. 

"  Well  ?  Do  you  think  Angleside  got  through  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Ambrose,  rather  anxiously. 

Short  said  he  thought  Angleside  was  safe.  He 
hoped  the  vicar  would  say  something  about  the  lady, 
but  to  his  annoyance,  he  said  nothing  at  all.  John 
could  not  ask  questions,  seeing  it  was  none  of  his 
business  and  was  fain  to  content  himself  with  think 
ing  of  the  lady's  face  and  voice.  He  felt  very  un 
comfortable  at  dinner.  He  thought  the  excellent  Mrs. 
Ambrose  eyed  him  with  unusual  severity,  as  though 
suspecting  what  he  was  thinking  about,  and  he  thought 
the  vicar's  gray  eye  twinkled  occasionally  with  the 
pleasant  sense  of  possessing  a  secret  he  had  no  inten 
tion  of  imparting.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  supremely  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  John  had 
seen  the  lady,  and  looked  at  him  with  some  curiosity, 
observing  that  he  seemed  nervous  and  blushed  from 
time  to  time  and  was  more  silent  than  usual.  She 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been  working 
too  hard,  as  usual,  and  that  night  requested  him  to 
take  two  little  pellets  of  aconite,  and  to  repeat  the 


22  -A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

dose  in  the  morning.  Whether  it  was  the  result  of  the 
homo30pathic  medicine  or  of  the  lapse  of  a  few  hours 
and  a  good  night's  rest,  it  is  impossible  to  say ;  John, 
however,  was  himself  again  the  next  morning  and 
showed  no  further  signs  of  nervousness.  But  he  kept 
his  eyes  and  ears  open,  hoping  for  some  news  of 
the  exquisite  creature  who  had  made  so  profound 
an  impression  on  his  heart. 

In  due  tune  the  joyful  news  arrived  from  Cambridge 
that  the  Honourable  Cornelius  had  passed  his  examina 
tion  and  was  at  liberty  to  matriculate  at  the  beginning 
of  the  term.  The  intelligence  was  duly  telegraphed 
to  his  father,  and  in  a  few  hours  came  a  despatch  in 
answer,  full  of  affectionate  congratulation  and  request 
ing  that  Cornelius  should  proceed  at  once  to  Paris, 
where  his  father  was  waiting  for  him.  The  young 
man  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  the  vicar,  of  Mrs. 
Ambrose  and  especially  of  John  Short,  for  whom  he 
had  conceived  an  almost  superstitious  admiration;  old 
Reynolds  was  not  forgotten  in  the  farewell,  and  for 
several  days  after  Angleside's  departure  the  aged 
gardener  was  observed  to  walk  somewhat  unsteadily 
and  to  wear  a  peculiarly  thoughtful  expression ;  while 
the  vicar  observed  with  annoyance  that  Strawberry, 
the  old  mare,  was  less  carefully  groomed  than  usual. 
Strangely  coincident  with  these  phenomena  was  the 
fact  that  Simon  Gunn's  yellow  cat  seemed  to  have 
entirely  repented  of  her  evil  practices,  renouncing  from 
the  day  when  Cornelius  left  for  Paris  her  periodical 
invasion  of  the  asparagus  beds  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden.  But  the  vicar  was  too  practical  a  man  to 
waste  time  in  speculating  upon  the  occult  relations 
of  seemingly  disconnected  facts.  He  applied  himself 
with  diligence  to  the  work  of  preparing  John  Short  to 


II.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH..  23 

compete  for  the  minor  scholarship.  The  labour  was 
congenial.  He  had  never  taken  a  pupil  so  far  before, 
and  it  was  a  genuine  delight  to  him  to  bring  his  own 
real  powers  into  play  at  last.  As  the  summer  wore 
on,  he  predicted  all  manner  of  success  for  John  Short, 
and  his  predictions  were  destined  before  long  to  be 
realised,  for  John  did  all  he  promised  to  do  and  more 
also.  To  have  succeeded  in  pushing  the  Honourable 
Cornelius  through  his  entrance  examination  was  a 
triumph  indeed,  but  an  uninteresting  one  at  best,  and 
one  which  had  no  further  consequences.  But  to  be 
the  means  of  turning  out  the  senior  classic  of  the 
University  was  an  honour  which  would  not  only 
greatly  increase  the  good  vicar's  reputation  but  would 
be  to  him  a  source  of  the  keenest  satisfaction  during 
the  remainder  of  his  life ;  moreover  the  prospects 
which  would  be  immediately  opened  to  John  in  case 
he  obtained  such  a  brilliant  success  would  be  a  very 
material  benefit  to  his  unlucky  father,  whose  talents 
yielded  him  but  a  precarious  livelihood  and  whose 
pitiable  condition  had  induced  his  old  schoolfellow  to 
undertake  the  education  of  his  son. 

Much  depended  upon  John's  obtaining  one  or  more 
scholarships  during  his  career  at  college.  To  a  man 
of  inferior  talents  the  vicar  would  have  suggested  that 
it  would  be  wiser  to  go  to  a  smaller  college  than 
Trinity  where  he  would  have  less  competition  to  ex 
pect;  but  as  soon  as  he  realised  John's  powers,  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  it  would  be  precisely  where 
competition  was  hottest  that  his  pupil  would  have  the 
greatest  success.  He  would  get  something — perhaps 
his  father  would  make  a  little  more  money — the  vicar 
even  dreamed  of  lending  John  a  small  sum — some 
thing  would  turn  up ;  at  all  events  he  must  go  to  the 


24  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

largest  college  and  do  everything  in  the  best  possible 
way.  Meanwhile  he  must  work  as  hard  as  he  could 
during  the  few  months  remaining  before  the  beginning 
of  his  first  term. 

Whether  the  lady  ever  wrote  to  Mr.  Ambrose, 
John  could  not  ascertain  ;  she  was  never  mentioned  at 
the  vicarage,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the' mystery  were 
never  to  be  solved.  But  the  impression  she  had  made 
upon  the  young  man's  mind  remained  and  even  gained 
strength  by  the  working  of  his  imagination ;  for  he 
thought  of  her  night  and  day,  treasuring  up  every 
memory  of  her  that  he  could  recall,  building  romances 
in  his  mind,  conceiving  the  most  ingenious  reasons  for 
the  solitary  visit  she  had  made  to  the  vicarage,  and  in 
wardly  vowing  that  if  ever  he  should  be  at  liberty  to 
follow  his  own  inclinations  he  would  go  out  into  the 
world  and  search  for  her.  He  was  only  eighteen  then, 
and  of  a  strongly  susceptible  temperament.  He  had 
seen  nothing  of  the  world,  for  even  when  living  in 
London,  in  a  dingy  lodging,  with  his  father,  he  had 
been  perpetually  occupied  with  books,  reading  much 
and  seeing  little.  Then  he  had  been  at  school,  but  he 
had  seen  the  dark  side  of  school  life — the  side  which 
boys  who  are  known  to  be  very  poor  generally  see ; 
and  more  than  ever  he  had  resorted  to  study  for  com 
fort  and  relief  from  outward  ills.  Then  at  last  he  had 
been  transferred  to  a  serener  state  in  the  vicarage  of 
Billingsfield  and  had  grown  up  rapidly  from  a  school 
boy  to  a  young  man ;  but,  as  has  been  said,  the  feminine 
element  at  the  vicarage  was  solely  represented  by  Mrs. 
Ambrose  and  the  monotony  of  her  maternal  society 
was  varied  only  by  the  occasional  visits  of  the  mild 
young  Mrs.  Edward  Pewlay.  John  Short  had  indeed 
a  powerful  and  aspiring  imagination,  but  it  would  have 


rr.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  25 

been  impossible  even  by  straining  that  faculty  to  its 
utmost  activity  to  think  in  the  same  breath  of  romance 
and  of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  for  even  in  her  youth  Mrs. 
Ambrose  had  not  been  precisely  a  romantic  character. 
John's  fancy  was  not  stimulated  by  his  surroundings, 
but  it  fed  upon  itself  and  grew  fast  enough  to  acquire 
an  influence  over  everything  he  did.  It  was  not  sur 
prising  that,  when  at  last  chance  threw  in  his  way  a 
being  who  seemed  instantly  to  realise  and  fulfil  his 
wildest  dreams  of  beauty  and  feminine  fascination,  he 
should  have  yielded  without  a  struggle  to  the  delicious 
influence,  feeling  that  henceforth  his  ideal  had  taken 
shape  and  substance,  and  had  thereby  become  more 
than  ever  the  ideal  in  which  he  delighted. 

He  gave  her  names,  a  dozen  of  them  every  day, 
christening  her  after  every  heroine  in  fiction  and  history 
of  whom  he  had  ever  read.  But  no  name  seemed  to 
suit  her  well  enough ;  whereupon  he  wrote  a  Greek 
ode  and  a  Latin  epistle  to  the  fair  unknown,  but 
omitted  to  show  them  to  the  Reverend  Augustin 
Ambrose,  though  he  was  quite  certain  that  they  were 
the  best  he  had  ever  produced.  Then  he  began  to 
write  a  novel,  but  suddenly  recollected  that  a  famous 
author  had  written  one  entitled  "No  Name,"  and  as 
that  was  the  only  title  he  could  possibly  give  to  the 
work  he  contemplated  he  of  course  had  no  choice  but 
to  abandon  the  work  itself.  He  wrote  more  verses, 
and  he  dreamed  more  dreams,  and  he  meanwhile  ac 
quired  much  learning  and  in  process  of  time  realised 
that  he  had  but  a  few  days  longer  to  stay  at  Billings- 
field.  The  Michaelmas  term  was  about  to  open  and 
he  must  bid  farewell  to  the  hospitable  roof  and  the 
learned  conversation  of  the  good  vicar.  But  when 
those  last  days  came  he  realised  that  he  was  leav- 


26  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

ing  the  scene  of  his  only  dream,  and  his  heart  grew 
sad. 

Indeed  he  loved  the  old  red  brick  vicarage  with  its 
low  porch,  overgrown  with  creepers,  its  fragrant  old 
flower  garden,  surrounding  it  on  three  sides,  its  gabled 
roof,  its  south  wall  whereon  the  vicar  constantly  at 
tempted  to  train  fig  trees,  maintaining  that  the  climate 
of  England  had  grown  warmer  and  that  he  would 
prove  it — John  loved  it  all,  and  especially  he  loved  the 
little  study,  lined  with  the  books  grown  familiar  to 
him,  and  the  study  door,  the  door  through  which  he  had 
seen  that  lovely  face  which  he  firmly  believed  was  to 
inspire  him  to  do  great  things  and  to  influence  his 
whole  life  for  ever  after.  He  would  leave  the  door 
open  and  place  himself  just  where  he  had  sat  that  day, 
and  then  he  would  look  suddenly  up  with  beating 
heart,  almost  fancying  he  could  again  see  those  violet 
eyes  gazing  at  him  from  the  dusky  passage — blushing 
then  to  himself,  like  any  girl,  and  burying  himself  in 
his  book  till  the  fancy  was  grown  too  strong  and  he 
looked  up  again.  He  had  attempted  to  sketch  her 
face  on  a  bit  of  paper ;  but  he  had  no  skill  and  he 
thrust  the  drawing  into  the  paper  basket,  horrified 
at  having  made  anything  so  hideous  in  the  effort  to 
represent  anything  so  beautiful,  and  returned  to  making 
odes  upon  her,  and  Latin  epistles,  in  which  he  suc 
ceeded  much  better. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  leave 
all  this  dreaming,  or  at  least  the  scene  of  it,  and  go  to 
college  and  win  scholarships  and  renown.  It  was 
hard  to  go  and  he  showed  his  regret  so  plainly  that 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  touched  at  what  she  took  for  his 
affection  for  the  place  and  for  herself  and  for  the  vicar. 
John  Short  was  indeed  very  grateful  to  her  for  all  the 


II.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          27 

kindness  she  had  shown  him,  and  to  Mr.  Ambrose  for 
the  learning  he  had  acquired;  for  John  was  a  fine 
fellow  and  never  forgot  an  obligation  nor  undervalued 
one.  But  when  we  are  very  young  our  hearts  are  far 
more  easily  touched  to  joy  and  sadness  by  the  chords 
and  discords  of  our  own  dreaming,  than  by  the  material 
doings  of  the  world  around  us,  or  by  the  strong  and 
benevolent  interest  our  elders  are  good  enough  to  take 
in  us.  We  feel  grateful  to  those  same  elders  if  we 
have  any  good  in  us,  but  we  are  far  from  feeling  a 
similar  interest  in  them.  We  see  in  our  imaginations 
wonderful  pictures,  and  we  hear  wonderful  words,  for 
everything  we  dream  of  partakes  of  an  unknown  per 
fection  and  completely  throws  into  the  shade  the 
inartistic  commonplaces  of  daily  life.  As  John  Short 
grew  older,  he  often  regretted  the  society  of  his  old 
tutor  and  in  the  frequent  absence  of  important  buttons 
from  his  raiment  he  bitterly  realised  that  there  was 
no  longer  a  motherly  Mrs.  Ambrose  to  inspect  his 
linen ;  but  when  he  took  leave  of  them  what  hurt  him 
most  was  to  turn  his  back  upon  the  beloved  old  study, 
upon  the  very  door  through  which  he  had  once,  and 
only  once,  beheld  the  ideal  of  his  first  love  dream. 

Though  the  vicar  was  glad  to  see  the  boy  started 
upon  what  he  already  regarded  as  a  career  of  certain 
victory,  he  was  sorry  to  lose  him,  not  knowing  when 
he  should  see  him  again.  John  intended  to  read 
through  all  the  vacations  until  he  got  his  degree.  He 
might  indeed  have  come  down  for  a  day  or  two  at 
Christmas,  but  with  his  very  slender  resources  even  so 
short  a  pleasure  trip  was  not  to  be  thought  of  lightly. 
It  was  therefore  to  be  a  long  separation,  so  long  to 
look  forward  to  that  when  John  saw  the  shabby  little 
box  which  contained  all  his  worldly  goods  put  up  into 


28  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

the  back  of  the  vicar's  dogcart,  and  stood  at  last  in 
the  hall,  saying  good-bye,  he  felt  as  though  he  was 
being  thrust  out  into  the  world  never  to  return  again, 
his  heart  seemed  to  rise  in  his  throat,  the  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes  and  he  could  hardly  speak  a  word.  Even 
then  he  thought  of  that  day  when  he  had  waked  up 
the  sleepy  Muggins  to  take  away  the  beautiful  un 
known  lady.  He  felt  he  must  be  quick  about  his 
leave-taking,  or  he  would  break  down. 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I — I  shall 
never  forget  it/'  he  murmured  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  "And  you,  too,  sir — "  he  added 
turning  to  the  vicar.  But  the  old  clergyman  cut  him 
short,  being  himself  rather  uncertain  about  the  throat. 

"  Good-bye,  my  lad.  God  bless  you.  We  shall 
hear  of  you  soon — showing  them  what  you  can  do  with 
your  Alcaics — Good-bye." 

So  John  got  into  the  dogcart  and  was  driven  off  by 
the  ancient  Reynolds — past  the  "  Duke's  Head,"  past 
the  "Feathers,"  past  the  churchyard  and  the  croft — 
the  "  croat,"  they  called  it  in  Billingsfield  —  and  on 
by  the  windmill  on  the  heath,  a  hideous  bit  of 
grassless  common  euphemistically  so  named,  and  so 
out  to  the  high-road  towards  the  railway  station,  feel 
ing  very  miserable  indeed.  It  is  a  curious  fact,  too, 
in  the  history  of  his  psychology  that  in  proportion  as 
he  got  farther  from  the  vicarage  he  thought  more  and 
more  of  his  old  tutor  and  less  and  less  of  his  unfinished 
dream,  and  he  realised  painfully  that  the  vicar  was 
nearly  the  only  friend  he  had  in  the  world.  He  would 
of  course  find  Cornelius  Angleside  at  Cambridge,  but 
he  suspected  that  Cornelius,  turned  loose  among  a 
merry  band  of  undergraduates  of  his  own  position 
would  be  a  very  different  person  from  the  idle  youth 


IL  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  29 

he  had  known  at  Billingsfield,  trembling  in  the  inter 
vals  of  his  idleness  at  the  awful  prospect  of  the 
entrance  examination,  and  frantically  attempting  to 
master  some  hit  of  stray  knowledge  which  might 
possibly  be  useful  to  him.  Cornelius  would  hunt, 
would  gamble,  would  go  to  the  races  and  would  give 
wines  at  college ;  John  was  to  be  a  reading  man  who 
must  avoid  such  things  as  he  would  avoid  the  devil 
himself,  not  only  because  he  was  too  wretchedly  poor 
to  have  any  share  whatever  in  the  amusements  of 
Cornelius  and  his  set,  but  because  every  minute  was 
important,  every  hour  meant  not  only  learning  but 
meant,  most  emphatically,  money.  He  thought  of  his 
poor  father,  grinding  out  the  life  of  a  literary  hack 
in  a  wretched  London  lodging,  dining  Heaven  knew 
where  and  generally  supping  not  at  all,  saving  every 
penny  to  help  his  son's  education,  hard  working,  honest, 
lacking  no  virtue  except  the  virtue  of  all  virtues — 
success.  Then  he  thought  how  he  himself  had  been 
favoured  by  fortune  during  these  last  years,  living 
under  the  vicar's  roof,  treated  with  the  same  considera 
tion  as  the  high-born  young  gentlemen  who  had  been 
Ms  companions,  living  well,  sleeping  well  and  getting 
the  best  education  in  England  for  nothing  or  next  to 
nothing,  while  that  same  father  of  his  had  never  ceased 
to  slave  day  and  night  with  his  pen,  honestly  doing 
his  best  and  yet  enjoying  none  of  the  good  things  of 
life.  John  thought  of  all  this  and  set  his  teeth 
boldly  to  face  the  world.  A  few  months,  he  thought, 
and  he  might  have  earned  a  scholarship — he  might 
be  independent.  Then  a  little  longer — less  than 
three  years  and  he  might,  nay,  he  would,  take  high 
honours  in  the  university  and  come  back  crowned  with 
glory,  with  the  prospect  of  a  fellowship,  with  every 


30  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

profession  open  to  him,  with  the  world  at  his  feet  and 
with  money  in  his  hand  to  help  his  father  out  of  all 
his  troubles. 

That  was  how  John  Short  went  to  Trinity.  It  was 
a  hard  struggle  at  first,  for  he  found  himself  much 
poorer  than  he  had  imagined,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
the  ends  could  not  possibly  meet.  There  was  no 
question  of  denying  himself  luxuries ;  that  would  have 
been  easy  enough.  In  those  first  months  it  was  the 
necessities  that  he  lacked,  the  coals  for  his  little  grate, 
the  oil  for  his  one  small  lamp.  But  he  fought  bravely 
through  it,  having,  like  many  another  young  fellow 
who  has  weathered  the  storms  of  poverty  in  pursuit  of 
learning,  an  iron  constitution,  and  an  even  stronger 
will.  He  used  to  say  long  afterwards  that  feeling  cold 
was  a  mere  habit  and  that  when  one  thoroughly 
understood  the  construction  of  Greek  verses,  some 
stimulus  of  physical  discomfort  was  necessary  to  make 
the  imagination  work  well ;  in  support  of  which  asser 
tion  he  said  that  he  had  never  done  such  good  things 
by  the  comfortable  fire  in  the  study  at  Billingsfield 
vicarage  as  he  did  afterwards  on  winter  nights  by  the 
light  of  a  tallow  candle,  high  up  in  Neville's  Court. 
Moreover,  if  any  one  argued  that  it  was  better  for  an 
extremely  poor  man  not  to  go  to  Trinity,  but  to  some 
much  smaller  college,  he  answered  that  as  far  as  he 
himself  was  concerned  he  could  not  have  done  better, 
which  was  quite  true  and  therefore  perfectly  unanswer 
able.  Where  the  competition  was  less,  he  would  have 
been  satisfied  with  less,  he  said ;  where  it  was  greatest 
a  man  could  only  be  contented  when  he  had  reached 
the  highest  point  possible.  But  before  he  attained  his 
end  he  suffered  more  than  any  one  knew,  especially 
during  those  first  months.  For  when  he  had  got  his 


II.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  31 

first  scholarship,  he  insisted  upon  sending  back  the 
little  sums  of  hard-earned  money  his  father  sent  him 
from  time  to  time,  and  he  consequently  had  nearly  as 
hard  work  as  before  to  keep  himself  warm  and  to  keep 
oil  in  his  lamp  during  the  long  winter's  evenings. 
But  he  succeeded,  nevertheless. 


32  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE   III. 

IN  the  month  of  October  of  that  year,  a  short  time 
after  John  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  Trinity  College, 
an  event  occurred  which  shook  Billingsfield  to  its 
foundations ;  no  less  an  event  than  the  occupation  of 
the  dwelling  known  as  the  "cottage."  What  the 
cottage  was  will  appear  hereafter.  The  arrival  of  the 
new  tenants  occurred  in  the  following  manner. 

The  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose  received  a  letter, 
which  he  immediately  showed  to  his  wife,  as  he 
showed  most  of  his  correspondence ;  for  he  was  of  the 
disposition  which  may  be  termed  wife -consul  ting. 
Married  men  are  generally  of  two  kinds ;  those  who 
tell  their  wives  everything  and  those  who  tell  them 
nothing.  It  is  evident  that  the  relative  merits  of  the 
two  systems  depend  chiefly  upon  the  relative  merits 
of  the  wives  in  question.  Mr.  Ambrose  had  no  doubt 
of  the  advantages  of  his  own  method  and  he  carried 
it  to  its  furthest  expression,  for  he  never  did  anything 
whatever  without  consulting  his  better  half.  On  the 
whole  the  plan  worked  well,  for  the  vicar  had  learning 
and  his  wife  had  common  sense.  He  therefore  showed 
the  letter  to  her  and  she  read  it,  and  read  it  again, 
and  finally  put  it  away,  writing  across  the  envelope 
in  her  own  large,  clear  hand  the  words — Goddard, 
Cottage — indicative  of  the  contents. 


in.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          33 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR — It  is  now  nearly  five  months  since 
I  saw  you  last.  Need  I  tell  you  that  the  sense  of  your 
kindness  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory  ?  You  do  not 
know,  indeed  you  cannot  know,  what  an  impression 
your  goodness  made  upon  me.  You  showed  me  that 
I  was  acting  rightly.  It  has  been  so  hard  to  act 
rightly.  Of  course  you  quite  understand  what  I 
mean.  I  cannot  refer  to  the  great  sorrow  which 
has  overtaken  me  and  my  dear  innocent  little  Nellie. 
There  is  no  use  in  referring  to  it,  for  I  have  told 
you  all.  You  allowed  me  to  unburden  my  heart 
to  you  during  my  brief  visit,  and  ever  since  that 
day  I  have  felt  very  much,  I  may  say  infinitely, 
relieved. 

"  I  am  again  about  to  ask  you  a  favour ;  I  trust 
indeed  that  I  am  not  asking  too  much,  but  I  know  by 
experience  how  kind  you  are  and  so  I  am  not  afraid 
to  ask  this  too.  Do  you  remember  speaking  to  me  of 
the  little  cottage  ?  The  picture  you  drew  of  it  quite 
charmed  me,  and  I  have  determined  to  take  it,  that  is, 
if  it  is  still  to  be  let  and  if  it  is  not  asking  quite  too 
much  of  you.  I  mean,  if  you  will  take  it  for  me. 
You  cannot  think  how  grateful  I  shall  be  and  I  enclose 
a  cheque.  I  am  almost  sure  you  said  thirty-six  pounds. 
It  was  thirty-six,  was  it  not  ?  The  reason  I  venture 
to  enclose  the  money  is  because  you  are  so  very  kind, 
but  of  course  you  do  not  know  anything  certain  about 
me.  But  I  am  sure  you  will  understand.  You  said 
you  were  sure  I  could  live  with  my  little  girl  in 
Billingsfield  for  three  hundred  a  year.  I  find  I  have 
a  little  more,  in  fact  nearly  five  hundred.  If  you  tell 
me  that  I  can  have  the  cottage,  I  will  come  down  at 
once,  for  town  is  very  dreary  and  we  have  been  here 
all  summer  except  a  week  at  Margate.  .  Let  me  thank 

D 


34  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

you  again,  you  have  been  so  very  kind,  and  believe 
me,  my  dear  sir,  very  sincerely  yours, 

"MARY    GODDARD." 

"Augustin,  my  dear,  this  is  very  exciting,"  said 
Mrs.  Ambrose,  as  she  handed  the  cheque  to  her 
husband  for  inspection  and  returned  the  letter  to  its 
envelope,  preparatory  to  marking  it  for  future  reference ; 
and  when,  as  has  been  said,  she  had  written  upon  the 
outside  the  words — Goddard,  Cottage,  and  had  put  it 
away  she  turned  upon  her  husband  with  an  inquiring 
manner  peculiar  to  her.  Mr.  Ambrose  was  standing 
before  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  rain  and  occa 
sionally  glancing  at  the  cheque  he  still  held  in  his 
hand. 

"  Just  like  a  woman  to  send  a  cheque  to  '  bearer ' 
through  the  post,"  he  remarked,  severely.  "  However 
since  I  have  got  it,  it  is  all  right." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  all  right,  Augustin,"  said  his 
wife.  "  We  are  taking  a  great  responsibility  in  bringing 
her  into  the  parish.  I  am  quite  sure  she  is  a  dissenter 
or  a  Eomanist  or  something  dreadful,  to  begin  with." 

"  My  dear,"  answered  the  vicar,  mildly,  "  you  make 
very  uncharitable  suppositions.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  most  one  can  say  of  her  is  that  she  is  very  unhappy 
and  that  she  does  not  write  very  good  English." 

"Oh,  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  very  unhappy.  But 
as  you  say  we  must  not  be  uncharitable.  I  suppose 
you  will  have  to  write  about  the  cottage." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose  doubtfully.  "  I 
cannot  send  her  back  the  money,  and  the  cottage  is 
certainly  to  let." 

He  deposited  the  cheque  in  the  drawer  of  his  writing- 
table  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  glanc- 


in.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  35 

ing  up  from  time  to  time  at  his  wife  who  was  lifting 
one  after  another  the  ornaments  which  stood  upon  the 
chimney-piece,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  Susan  had 
dusted  underneath  them.  She  had  many  ways  of 
assuring  herself  that  people  did  their  work  properly. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  you  cannot  send  her  back  the 
money.  But  it  is  a  very  solemn  responsibility.  I 
hope  we  are  doing  quite  right." 

"  I  certainly  would  not  hesitate  to  return  the  cheque, 
my  dear,  if  I  thought  any  harm  would  come  of  Mrs. 
Goddard's  living  here.  But  I  don't  think  there  is  any 
reason  to  doubt  her  story." 

"  Of  course  not.  It  was  in  the  Standard,  so  there 
is  no  doubt  about  it.  I  only  hope  no  one  else  reads 
the  papers  here." 

"They  read  them  in  the  kitchen,"  added  Mrs. 
Ambrose  presently,  "  and  they  probably  take  a  paper 
at  the  Duke's  Head.  Mr.  Boosey  is  rather  a  literary 
character." 

"Nobody  will  suppose  it  was  that  Goddard,  my 
dear,"  said  the  vicar  in  a  reassuring  tone  of  voice. 

"  No — you  had  better  write  about  the  cottage." 

"I  will,"  said  the  vicar;  and  he  forthwith  did. 
And  moreover,  with  his  usual  willingness  to  give  him 
self  trouble  for  other  people,  he  took  a  vast  deal  of 
pains  to  see  that  the  cottage  was  really  habitable.  It 
turned  out  to  be  in  very  good  condition.  It  was  a 
pretty  place  enough,  standing  ten  yards  back  from  the 
road,  beyond  the  village,  just  opposite  the  gates  of  the 
park ;  a  little  square  house  of  red  brick  with  a  high 
pointed  roof  and  a  little  garden.  The  walls  were 
overgrown  with  creepers  which  had  once  been  trained 
with  considerable  care,  but  which  during  the  last  two 
years  had  thriven  in  untrimmed  luxuriance  and  now 


36  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

covered  the  whole  of  the  side  of  the  house  which  faced 
the  road.  So  thickly  did  they  grow  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  windows  could  at  first  be  opened. 
The  vicar  sighed  as  he  entered  the  darkened  rooms. 
His  daughter  had  lived  in  the  cottage  when  she  first 
married  the  young  doctor  who  had  now  gone  to  London, 
and  the  vicar  had  been,  and  was,  very  fond  of  his 
daughter.  He  had  almost  despaired  of  ever  seeing  her 
again  in  Billingsfield ;  the  only  glimpses  of  her  he 
could  obtain  were  got  by  going  himself  to  town,  for 
the  doctor  was  so  busy  that  he  always  put  off  the  pro 
jected  visit  to  the  country  and  his  wife  was  so  fond  of 
him  that  she  refused  to  go  alone.  The  vicar  sighed 
as  he  forced  open  the  windows  upon  the  lower  floor  and 
let  the  light  into  the  bare  and  empty  rooms  which  had 
once  been  so  bright  and  full  of  happiness.  He  won 
dered  what  sort  of  person  Mrs.  Goddard  would  turn 
out  to  be  upon  nearer  acquaintance,  and  made  vague, 
unconscious  conjectures  about  her  furniture  as  he 
stumbled  up  the  dark  stairs  to  the  upper  story. 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  The  arrangements 
were  easily  concluded,  for  the  cottage  belonged  to  the 
estate  in  Chancery  and  the  lawyer  in  charge  was  very 
busy  with  other  matters.  The  guarantee  afforded  by 
the  vicar's  personal  application,  together  with  the  pay 
ment  of  a  year's  rent  in  advance  so-  far  facilitated 
matters  that  four  days  after  she  had  written  to  Mr. 
Ambrose  the  latter  informed  Mrs.  Goddard  that  she 
was  at  liberty  to  take  possession.  The  vicar  suggested 
that  the  Billingsfield  carrier,  who  drove  his  cart  to 
London  once  a  week,  could  bring  her  furniture  down 
in  two  trips  and  save  her  a  considerable  expense ;  Mrs. 
Goddard  accepted  this  advice  and  in  the  course  of  a 
fortnight  was  installed  with  all  her  goods  in  the 


in.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  37 

cottage.     Having  completed  her  arrangements  at  last, 
she  came  to  call  upon  the  vicar's  wife. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  changed  since  she  had  first 
visited  Billingsfield,  five  months  earlier,  though  little 
Eleanor  had  grown  taller  and  was  if  possible  prettier 
than  ever.  Something  of  the  character  of  the  lady  in 
black  may  have  been  gathered  from  the  style  of  her 
letter  to  Mr.  Ambrose;  that  communication  had  im 
pressed  the  vicar's  wife  unfavourably  and  had  drawn 
from  her  husband  a  somewhat  compassionate  remark 
about  the  bad  English  it  contained.  Nevertheless  when 
Mrs.  Goddard  came  to  live  in  Billingsfield  the  Ambroses 
soon  discovered  that  she  was  a  very  well-educated 
woman,  that  she  appeared  to  have  read  much  and  to 
have  read  intelligently,  and  that  she  was  on  the  whole 
decidedly  interesting.  It  was  long,  however,  before 
Mrs.  Ambrose  entirely  conquered  a  certain  antipathy 
she  felt  for  her,  and  which  she  explained  after  her 
own  fashion.  Mrs.  Goddard  was  not  a  dissenter  and 
she  was  not  a  Eomanist ;  on  the  contrary  she  appeared 
to  be  a  very  good  churchwoman.  She  paid  her  bills 
regularly  and  never  gave  anybody  any  trouble.  She 
visited  the  vicarage  at  stated  intervals,  and  the  vicar 
age  graciously  returned  her  visits.  The  vicar  himself 
even  went  to  the  cottage  more  often  -than  Mrs. 
Ambrose  thought  strictly  necessary,  for  the  vicar  was 
strongly  prejudiced  in  her  favour.  But  Mrs.  Ambrose 
did  not  share  that  prejudice.  Mrs.  Goddard,  she  said, 
was  too  effusive,  talked  too  much  about  herself  and 
her  troubles,  did  not  look  thoroughly  straightforward, 
probably  had  foreign  blood.  Ay,  there  was  the  rub — 
Mrs.  Ambrose  suspected  that  Mrs.  Goddard  was  not 
quite  English.  If  she  was  not,  why  did  she  not  say 
so,  and  be  done  with  it  ? 


38  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  English,  nevertheless,  and  would 
have  been  very  much  surprised  could  she  have  guessed 
the  secret  cause  of  the  slight  coldness  she  sometimes 
observed  in  the  manner  of  the  clergyman's  wife  towards 
her.  She  herself,  poor  thing,  believed  it  was  because 
she  was  in  trouble,  and  considering  the  nature  of  the 
disaster  which  had  befallen  her,  she  was  not  surprised. 
She  was  rather  a  weak  woman,  rather  timid,  and  if 
she  talked  a  little  too  much  sometimes  it  was  because 
she  felt  embarrassed ;  there  were  times,  too,  when  she 
was  very  silent  and  sad.  She  had  been  very  happy 
and  the  great  catastrophe  had  overtaken  her  suddenly, 
leaving  her  absolutely  without  friends.  She  wanted  to 
be  hidden  from  the  world,  and  by  one  of  those  strange 
contrasts  often  found  in  weak  people  she  had  suddenly 
made  a  very  bold  resolution  and  had  successfully  carried 
it  out.  She  had  come  straight  to  a  man  she  had  never 
seen,  but  whom  she  knew  very  well  by  reputation, 
and  had  told  him  her  story  and  asked  him  to  help 
her ;  and  she  had  not  come  in  vain.  The  person  who 
advised  her  to  go  to  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose 
knew  that  there  was  not  a  better  man  to  whom  she 
could  apply.  She  had  found  what  she  wanted,  a  sort 
of  deserted  village  where  she  would  never  be  obliged 
to  meet  any  one,  since  there  was  absolutely  no  society ; 
she  had  found  a  good  man  upon  whom  she  felt  she 
could  rely  in  case  of  further  difficulty ;  and  she  had 
not  come  upon  false  pretences,  for  she  had  told  her 
whole  story  quite  frankly.  For  a  woman  who  was  natu 
rally  timid  she  had  done  a  thing  requiring  consider 
able  courage,  and  she  was  astonished  at  her  own  bold 
ness  after  she  had  done  it.  But  in  her  peaceful 
retreat,  she  reflected  that  she  could  not  possibly  have 
left  England,  as  many  women  in  her  position  would 


in.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          39 

have  done,  simply  because  the  idea  of  exile  was  in 
tolerable  to  her;  she  reflected  also  that  if  she  had 
settled  in  any  place  where  there  was  any  sort  of 
society  her  story  would  one  day  have  become  known, 
and  that  if  she  had  spent  years  in  studying  her  situa 
tion  she  could  not  have  done  better  than  in  going 
boldly  to  the  vicar  of  Billingsfield  and  explaining  her 
sad  position  to  him.  She  had  found  a  haven  of  rest 
after  many  months  of  terrible  anxiety  and  she 
hoped  that  she  might  end  her  days  in  peace  and  in 
the  spot  she  had  chosen.  But  she  was  very  young 
— not  thirty  years  of  age  yet — and  her  little  girl 
would  soon  grow  up — and  then?  Evidently  her 
dream  of  peace  was  likely  to  be  of  limited  duration ; 
but  she  resigned  herself  to  the  unpleasant  possibilities 
of  the  future  with  a  good  grace,  in  consideration  of 
the  advantages  she  enjoyed  in  the  present. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  was  at  home  when  Mrs.  Goddard  and 
little  Eleanor  came  to  the  vicarage.  Indeed  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  rarely  out  in  the  afternoon,  unless  some 
thing  very  unusual  called  her  away.  She  received  her 
visitor  with  the  stern  hospitality  she  exercised  towards 
strangers.  The  strangers  she  saw  were  generally  the 
near  relations  of  the  young  gentlemen  whom  her  hus 
band  received  for  educational  purposes.  She  stood 
in  the  front  drawing-room,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  most 
impressive  chamber  of  that  fortress  which  is  an 
Englishman's  house.  It  was  a  formal  room,  arranged 
by  a  fixed  rule  and  the  order  of  it  was  maintained  in 
flexibly  ;  no  event  could  be  imagined  of  such  terrible 
power  as  to  have  caused  the  displacement  of  one  of 
those  chairs,  of  one  of  those  ornaments  upon  the 
chimney-piece,  of  one  of  those  engravings  upon  the 
walls.  The  walls  were  papered  with  one  shade  of 


40  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

green,  the  furniture  was  covered  with  material  of 
another  shade  of  green  and  the  well -spared  carpet 
exhibited  still  a  third  variety  of  the  same  colour. 
Mrs.  Ambrose's  sense  of  order  did  not  extend  to  the 
simplest  forms  of  artistic  harmony,  but  when  it  had 
an  opportunity  of  impressing  itself  upon  inanimate 
objects  which  were  liable  to  be  moved,  washed  or 
dusted,  its  effects  were  formidable  indeed.  She 
worshipped  neatness  and  cleanliness ;  she  left  the 
question  of  taste  to  others.  And  now  she  stood  in 
the  keep  of  her  stronghold,  the  impersonation  of 
moral  rectitude  and  of  practical  housekeeping. 

Mrs.  Goddard  entered  rather  timidly,  followed  by 
little  Eleanor  whose  ideas  had  been  so  much  disturbed 
by  the  recent  change  in  her  existence,  that  she  had 
grown  unusually  silent  and  her  great  violet  eyes  were 
unceasingly  opened  wide  to  take  in  the  growing  won 
ders  of  her  situation.  Mrs.  Goddard  was  still  dressed 
in  black,  as  when  John  Short  had  seen  her  five 
months  earlier.  There  was  something  a  little  peculiar 
in  her  mourning,  though  Mrs.  Ambrose  would  have 
found  it  hard  to  define  the  peculiarity.  Some  people 
would  have  said  that  if  she  was  really  a  widow  her 
gown  fitted  a  little  too  well,  her  bonnet  was  a  little 
too  small,  her  veil  a  little  too  short.  Mrs.  Ambrose 
supposed  that  those  points  were  suggested  by  the 
latest  fashions  in  London  and  summed  up  the  difficulty 
by  surmising  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  foreign  blood. 

"  I  should  have  called  before,"  said  the  latter,  deeply 
impressed  by  the  severe  appearance  of  the  vicar's  wife, 
"  but  I  have  been  so  busy  putting  my  things  into  the 
cottage " 

"Pray  don't  think  of  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambrose. 
Then  she  added  after  a  pause,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see 


in.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  41 

you."  She  appeared  to  have  been  weighing  in  her 
conscience  the  question  whether  she  could  truthfully 
say  so  or  not.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  was  grateful  for  the 
smallest  advances. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  you  are  so  very  kind. 
Will  you  tell  Mr.  Ambrose  how  thankful  I  am  for  his 
kind  assistance  ?  Yes,  Nellie  and  I  have  had  hard 
work  in  moving,  have  not  we,  dear  ? "  She  drew  the 
beautiful  child  close  to  her  and  gazed  lovingly  into  her 
eyes.  But  Nellie  was  shy ;  she  hid  her  face  on  her 
mother's  shoulder,  and  then  looked  doubtfully  at  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  and  then  hid  herself  again. 

"  How  old  is  your  little  girl  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Ambrose 
more  kindly.  She  was  fond  of  children,  and  actually 
pitied  any  child  whose  mother  perhaps  had  foreign 
blood. 

"Eleanor — I  call  her  Nellie — -is  eight  years  old. 
She  will  be  nine  in  January.  She  is  tall  for  her  age," 
added  Mrs.  Goddard  with  affectionate  pride.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  Nellie  was  small  for  her  years,  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  who  was  the  most  truthful  of  women,  felt 
that  she  could  not  conscientiously  agree  in  calling  her 
tall.  She  changed  the  subject. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  very  quiet  in  Billings- 
field,"  she  said  presently. 

"  Oh,  I  am  used — that  is,  I  prefer  a  very  quiet 
place.  I  want  to  live  very  quietly  for  some  years, 
indeed  I  hope  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Besides  it 
will  be  so  good  for  Nellie  to  live  in  the  country — she 
will  grow  so  strong." 

"She  looks  very  well,  I  am  sure,"  answered  Mrs. 
Ambrose  rather  bluntly,  looking  at  the  child's  clear 
complexion  and  bright  eyes.  "  And  have  you  always 
lived  in  town  until  now,  Mrs.  Goddard  ?"  she  asked. 


42  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  Oh  no,  not  always,  but  most  of  the  year,  perhaps. 
Indeed  I  think  so."  Mrs.  Goddard  felt  nervous  before 
the  searching  glance  of  the  elder  woman.  Mrs.  Ambrose 
concluded  that  she  was  not  absolutely  straightforward. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  make  the  cottage  com 
fortable  ? "  asked  the  vicar's  wife,  seeing  that  the 
conversation  languished. 

"  Oh,  I  think  so,"  answered  her  visitor,  glad  to 
change  the  subject,  and  suddenly  becoming  very 
voluble  as  she  had  previously  been  very  shy.  "  It  is 
really  a  charming  little  place.  Of  course  it  is  not 
very  large,  but  as  we  have  not  got  very  many  belong 
ings  that  is  all  the  better ;  and  the  garden  is  small 
b*ut  extremely  pretty  and  wild,  and  the  kitchen  is 
very  convenient ;  really  I  quite  wonder  how  the 
people  who  built  it  could  have  made  it  all  so  comfort 
able.  You  see  there  are  one — two — the  pantry,  the 
kitchen  and  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  and  plenty 
of  room  upstairs  for  everybody,  and  as  for  the  sun !  it 
streams  into  all  the  windows  at  once  from  morning 
till  night.  And  such  a  pretty  view,  too,  of  that  old 
gate  opposite — where  does  it  lead  to,  Mrs.  Ambrose  ? 
It  is  so  very  pretty." 

"  It  leads  to  the  park  and  the  Hall,"  answered  Mrs. 
Ambrose. 

"  Oh — "  Mrs.  Goddard's  tone  changed.  "  But  no 
body  lives  there?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  Oh  no — it  is  in  Chancery,  you  know." 

"What  —  what  is  that,  exactly?"  asked  Mrs. 
Goddart,  timidly.  "  Is  there  a  young  heir  waiting  to 
grow  up — I  mean  waiting  to  take  possession  ?" 

"  No.  There  is  a  suit  about  it.  It  has  been  going 
on  for  forty  years  my  husband  says,  and  they  cannot 
decide  to  whom  it  belongs." 


ill.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  43 

"  I  see,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  I  suppose  they 
will  never  decide  now." 

"  Probably  not  for  some  time." 

"  It  must  be  a  very  pretty  place.  Can  one  go  in, 
do  you  think  ?  I  am  so  fond  of  trees — what  a 
beautiful  garden  you  have  yourself,  Mrs.  Ambrose." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  it  ? "  asked  the  vicar's 
wife,  anxious  to  bring  the  visit  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Oh,  thank  you — of  all  things  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Goddard.  "  Would  not  you  like  to  run  about  the 
garden,  Nellie  ? " 

The  little  girl  nodded  slowly  and  stared  at  Mrs. 
Ambrose. 

"My  husband  is  a  very  good  gardener,"  said  the 
latter,  leading  the  way  out  to  the  hall.  "  And  so  was 
John  Short,  but  he  has  left  us,  you  know." 

"Who  was  John  Short?"  asked  Mrs.  Goddard 
rather  absently,  as  she  watched  Mrs.  Ambrose  who 
was  wrapping  herself  in  a  huge  blue  waterproof 
cloak  and  tying  a  sort  of  worsted  hood  over  her 
head. 

"  He  was  one  of  the  boys  Mr.  Ambrose  prepared 
for  college — such  a  good  fellow.  You  may  have  seen 
him  when  you  came  last  June,  Mrs.  Goddard  ? " 

"  Had  he  very  bright  blue  eyes — a  nice  face  ? " 

"  Yes — that  is,  it  might  have  been  Mr.  Angleside 
— Lord  Scatterbeigh's  son — he  was  here,  too." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  perhaps  it  was." 

"  Mamma,"  asked  little  Nellie,  "  what  is  Laws  Cat- 
terbay  ? " 

"  A  peer,  darling." 

"Like  the  one  at  Brighton,  mamma,  with  a  band  ?" 

"  No,  child,"  answered  the  mother  laughing.  "  P, 
double  E,  K,  peer — a  rich  gentleman." 


44  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

"  Like  poor  papa  then  ? "  inquired  the  irrepressible 
Eleanor. 

Mrs.  Goddard  turned  pale  and  pressed  the  little 
girl  close  to  her  side,  leaning  down  to  whisper  in  her 
ear. 

"You  must  not  ask  foolish  questions,  darling — I 
will  tell  you  by  and  by." 

"  Papa  was  a  rich  gentleman,"  objected  the  child. 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and  the 
ready  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  The  vicar's  wife 
smiled  kindly  and  took  little  Nellie  by  the  hand. 

"  Come,  dear,"  she  said  in  the  motherly  tone  that 
was  natural  to  her  when  she  was  not  receiving  visitors. 
"  Come  and  see  the  garden  and  you  can  play  with 
Carlo." 

"  Can't  I  see  Laws  Catterbay,  too  ?"  asked  the  little 
girl  rather  wistfully. 

"  Carlo  is  a  great,  big,  brown  dog,"  said  Mrs.  Am 
brose,  leading  the  child  out  into  the  garden,  while  Mrs. 
Goddard  followed  close  behind.  Before  they  had 
gone  far  they  came  upon  the  vicar,  arrayed  in  an  old 
coat,  his  hands  thrust  into  a  pair  of  gigantic  gardening 
gloves  and  a  battered  old  felt  hat  upon  his  head.  Mrs. 
Goddard  had  felt  rather  uncomfortable  in  the  impres 
sive  society  of  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  the  sight  of  the 
vicar's  genial  face  was  reassuring  in  the  extreme.  She 
was  not  disappointed,  for  he  immediately  relieved  the 
situation  by  asking  all  manner  of  kindly  questions, 
interspersed  with  remarks  upon  his  garden,  while  Mrs. 
Ambrose  introduced  little  Nellie  to  the  acquaintance  of 
Carlo  who  had  not  seen  so  pretty  a  little  girl  for  many 
a  day,  and  capered  and  wagged  his  feathery  tail  in  a 
manner  most  unseemly  for  so  clerical  a  dog. 

So  it  came   about   that  Mrs.  Goddard  established 


in.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          45 

herself  at  Billingsfield  and  made  her  first  visit  to  the 
vicarage.  After  that  the  ice  was  broken  and  things 
went  on  smoothly  enough.  Mrs.  Ambrose's  hints 
concerning  foreign  blood,  and  her  husband's  invariable 
remonstrance  to  the  effect  that  she  ought  to  be  more 
charitable,  grew  more  and  more  rare  as  time  went  on, 
and  finally  ceased  altogether.  Mrs.  Goddard  became 
a  regular  institution,  and  ceased  to  astonish  the  in 
habitants.  Mr.  Thomas  Eeid,  the  sexton,  was  heard 
to  remark  from  time  to  time  that  he  "didn't  hold 
with  th'm  newfangle  fashins  in  dress ;"  but  he  was 
a  regular  old  conservative,  and  most  people  agreed 
with  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey  of  the  Duke's  Head,  who 
had  often  been  to  London,  and  who  said  she  did  "look 
just  A  one,  slap  up,  she  did !" 

Mrs.  Goddard  became  an  institution,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  first  year  of  her  residence  in  the  cottage 
it  came  to  be  expected  that  she  should  dine  at  the 
vicarage  at  least  once  a  week ;  and  once  a  week,  also, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  went  up  and  had  tea  with  her 
and  little  Eleanor  at  the  cottage.  It  came  to  pass 
also  that  Mrs.  Goddard  heard  a  vast  deal  of  talk 
about  John  Short  and  his  successes  at  Trinity,  and 
she  actually  developed  a  lively  interest  in  his  career, 
and  asked  for  news  of  him  almost  as  eagerly  as  though 
he  had  been  already  a  friend  of  her  own.  In  very 
quiet  places  people  easily  get  into  the  sympathetic 
habit  of  regarding  their  neighbours'  interests  as  very 
closely  allied  to  their  own.  The  constant  talk  about 
John  Short,  the  vicar's  sanguine  hopes  for  his  brilliant 
future,  and  Mrs.  Ambrose's  unlimited  praise  of  his 
moral  qualities,  repeated  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 
produced  a  vivid  impression  on  Mrs.  Goddard's  mind. 
It  would  have  surprised  her  and  even  amused  her 


46  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

beyond  measure  had  she  had  any  idea  that  she  herself 
had  for  a  long  time  absorbed  the  interest  of  this  same 
John  Short,  that  he  had  written  hundreds  of  Greek 
and  Latin  verses  in  her  praise,  while  wholly  ignorant 
of  her  name,  and  that  at  the  very  time  when  without 
knowing  him,  she  was  constantly  mentioning  him  as 
though  she  knew  him  intimately  well,  he  himself  was 
looking  back  to  the  one  glimpse  he  had  had  of  her, 
as  to  a  dream  of  unspeakable  bless. 

It  never  occurred  to  Mr.  Ambrose's  mind  to  tell 
John  in  the  occasional  letters  he  wrote  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  had  settled  in  Billingsfield.  John,  he  thought, 
could  take  no  possible  interest  in  knowing  about  her, 
and  moreover,  Mrs.  Goddard  herself  was  most  anxious 
never  to  be  mentioned  abroad.  She  had  come  to 
Billingsfield  to  live  in  complete  obscurity,  and  the 
good  vicar  had  promised  that  as  far  as  he  and  his  wife 
were  concerned  she  should  have  her  wish.  To  tell 
even  John  Short,  his  own  beloved  pupil,  would  be  to 
some  extent  a  breach  of  faith,  and  there  was  assuredly 
no  earthly  reason  why  John  should  be  told.  It  might 
do  harm,  for  of  course  the  young  fellow  had  made 
acquaintances  at  Cambridge ;  he  had  probably  read 
about  the  Goddard  case  in  the  papers,  and  might  talk 
about  it.  If  he  should  happen  to  come  down  for  a 
day  or  two  he  would  probably  meet  her;  but  that 
could  not  be  avoided.  It  was  not  likely  that  he  would 
come  for  some  time.  The  vicar  himself  intended  to  go 
up  to  Cambridge  for  a  day  or  two  after  Christmas  to 
see  him ;  but  the  winter  flew  by  and  Mr.  Ambrose 
did  not  go.  Then  came  Easter,  then  the  summer  and 
the  Long  vacation.  John  wrote  that  he  could  not 
leave  his  books  for  a  day,  but  that  he  hoped  to  run 
down  next  Christmas.  Again  he  did  not  come,  but 


in.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          47 

there  came  the  news  of  his  having  won  another  and 
a  more  important  scholarship ;  the  news  also  that  he 
was  already  regarded  as  the  most  promising  man  in 
the  university,  all  of  which  exceedingly  delighted  the 
heart  of  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose,  and  being 
told  with  eulogistic  comments  to  Mrs.  Goddard, 
tended  to  increase  the  interest  she  felt  in  the  existence 
of  John  Short,  so  that  she  began  to  long  for  a  sight  of 
him,  without  exactly  knowing  why. 

Gradually,  too,  as  she  and  her  little  girl  passed 
many  peaceful  days  in  the  quiet  cottage,  the  sad 
woman's  face  grew  less  sorrowful.  She  spoke  of  her 
self  more  cheerfully  and  dwelt  less  upon  the  subject 
of  her  grief.  She  had  at  first  been  so  miserable  that 
she  could  hardly  talk  at  all  without  referring  to  her 
unhappy  situation  though,  after  her  first  interview  with 
Mrs.  Ambrose,  no  one  had  ever  heard  her  mention 
any  details  connected  with  her  trouble.  But  now  she 
never  approached  the  subject  at  all.  Her  face  lost 
none  of  its  pathetic  beauty,  it  is  true,  but  it  seemed 
to  express  sorrow  past  rather  than  present.  Mean 
while  little  Nellie  grew  daily  more  lovely,  and  absorbed 
more  and  more  of  her  mother's  attention. 


48  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE    IV. 

EVENTS  of  such  stirring  interest  as  the  establishment 
of  Mrs.  Goddard  in  Billingsfield  rarely  come  alone  ;  for 
it  seems  to  be  in  the  nature  of  great  changes  to  bring 
other  changes  with  them,  even  when  there  is  no  ap 
parent  connection  whatever  between  them.  It  took 
nearly  two  years  for  Billingsfield  to  recover  from  its 
astonishment  at  Mrs.  Goddard's  arrival,  and  before  the 
excitement  had  completely  worn  off  the  village  was 
again  taken  off  its  feet  by  unexpected  news  of  stupen 
dous  import,  even  as  of  old  Pompeii  was  overthrown 
by  a  second  earthquake  before  it  had  wholly  recovered 
from  the  devastation  caused  by  the  first.  The  shock 
was  indeed  a  severe  one.  The  Juxon  estate  was 
reported  to  be  out  of  Chancery,  and  a  new  squire  was 
coming  to  take  up  his  residence  at  the  HalL 

It  is  not  known  exactly  how  the  thing  first  became 
known,  but  there  was  soon  no  doubt  whatever  that  it 
was  true.  Thomas  Eeid,  the  sexton,  who  remembered 
that  the  old  squire  died  forty  years  ago  come  Michael 
mas,  and  had  been  buried  in  a  "wonderful  heavy" 
cofnn,  Thomas  Eeid  the  stern  censor  of  the  vicar's 
sermons,  a  melancholic  and  sober  man,  so  far  lost  his 
head  over  the  news  as  to  ask  Mr.  Ambrose's  leave  to 
ring  the  bells,  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey  having  promised 
beer  for  the  ringers.  Even  to  the  vicar's  enlightened 


iv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  49 

mind  it  seemed  fitting  that  there  should  be  some 
festivity  over  so  great  an  event  and  the  bells  were 
accordingly  rung  during  one  whole  afternoon.  Thomas 
Eeid's  ringers  never  got  beyond  the  first  "  bob  "  of  a 
peal,  for  with  the  exception  of  the  sexton  himself  and 
old  William  Speller  the  wheelwright,  who  pulled  the 
treble  bell,  they  were  chiefly  dull  youths  who  with 
infinite  difficulty  had  been  taught  what  changes  they 
knew  by  rote  and  had  very  little  idea  of  ringing  by 
scientific  rule.  Moreover  Mr.  Boosey  was  liberal  in 
the  matter  of  beer  that  day  and  the  effect  of  each 
successive  can  that  was  taken  up  the  stairs  of  the  old 
tower  was  immediately  apparent  to  every  one  within 
hearing,  that  is  to  say  as  far  as  five  miles  around. 

The  estate  was  out  of  Chancery  at  last.  For  forty 
yeare,  ever  since  the  death  of  the  old  squire,  no  one 
had  rightfully  called  the  Hall  his  own.  The  heir  had 
lived  abroad,  and  had  lived  in  such  an  exceedingly 
eccentric  manner  as  to  give  ground  for  a  suit  de 
lunatico  inquirendo,  brought  by  another  heir.  With 
the  consistency  of  judicial  purpose  which  characterises 
such  proceedings  the  courts  appeared  to  have  decided 
that  though  the  natural  possessor,  the  eccentric  in 
dividual  who  lived  abroad,  was  too  mad  to  be  left  in 
actual  possession,  he  was  not  mad  enough  to  justify 
actual  possession  in  the  person  of  the  next  of  kin. 
Proceedings  continued,  fees  were  paid,  a  certain  legal 
personage  already  mentioned  came  down  from  time  to 
time  and  looked  over  the  estate,  but  the  matter  was 
not  finally  settled  until  the  eccentric  individual  died, 
after  forty  years  of  eccentricity,  to  the  infinite  relief 
and  satisfaction  of  all  parties  and  especially  of  his 
lawful  successor  Charles  James  Juxon  now,  at  last,  "  of 
Billingsfield  Hall,  in  the  county  of  Essex,  Esquire." 

E 


50  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

In  due  time  also  Mr.  Juxon  appeared.  It  was 
natural  that  he  should  come  to  see  the  vicar,  and  as 
it  happened  that  he  called  late  in  the  afternoon  upon 
the  day  when  Mrs.  Goddard  and  little  Eleanor  were 
accustomed  to  dine  at  the  vicarage,  he  at  once  had  an 
opportunity  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  his  tenant ; 
thus,  if  we  except  the  free-thinking  doctor,  it  will  be 
seen  that  Mr.  Juxon  was  in  the  course  of  five  minutes 
introduced  to  the  whole  of  the  Billingsfield  society. 

He  was  a  man  inclining  towards  middle  age,  of  an 
active  and  vigorous  body,  of  a  moderate  intelligence 
and  of  decidedly  prepossessing  appearance.  His 
features  were  of  the  strong,  square  type,  common  to 
men  whose  fathers  for  many  generations  have  lived 
in  the  country.  His  eyes  were  small,  blue  and  very 
bright,  and  to  judge  from  the  lines  in  his  sunburned 
face  he  was  a  man  who  laughed  often  and  heartily. 
He  had  an  abundance  of  short  brown  hair,  parted 
very  far  upon  one  side  and  brushed  to  a  phenomenal 
smoothness,  and  he  wore  a  full  brown  beard,  cut 
rather  short  and  carefully  trimmed.  He  immediately 
won  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Ambrose  on  account  of  his 
extremely  neat  appearance.  There  was  no  foreign 
blood  in  him,  she  was  sure.  He  had  large  clean 
hands  with  large  and  polished  nails.  He  wore  very 
well  made  clothes,  and  he  spoke  like  a  gentleman. 
The  vicar,  too,  was  at  once  prepossessed  in  his  favour, 
and  even  little  Eleanor,  who  was  generally  very  shy 
before  strangers,  looked  at  him  admiringly  and  showed 
little  of  her  usual  bashfulness.  But  Mrs.  Goddard 
seemed  ill  at  ease  and  tried  to  keep  out  of  the  con 
versation  as  much  as  possible. 

"  There  have  been  great  rejoicings  at  the  prospect 
of  your  arrival,"  said  the  vicar  when  the  new-comer 


IV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          51 

had  been  introduced  to  both  the  ladies.  "  I  fancy 
that  if  you  had  let  it  be  known  that  you  were  coming 
down  to-day  the  people  would  have  turned  out  to 
meet  you  at  the  station." 

"  The  truth  is,  I  rather  avoid  that  sort  of  thing," 
said  the  squire,  smiling.  "  I  would  rather  enter  upon 
my  dominions  as  quietly  as  possible." 

"  It  is  much  better  for  the  people,  too,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  Their  idea  of  a  holiday  is  to  do  no 
work  and  have  too  much  beer." 

"  I  daresay  that  would  not  hurt  them  much,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Juxon  cheerfully.  "By  the  bye,  I  know 
nothing  about  them.  I  have  never  been  here  before. 
My  man  of  business  wanted  to  come  down  and  show 
me  over  the  estate,  and  introduce  me  to  the  farmers 
and  all  that,  but  I  thought  it  would  be  such  a  bore 
that  I  would  not  have  him." 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell,  really,"  said  Mr. 
Ambrose.  "The  society  of  Billingsfield  is  all  here," 
he  added  with  a  smile,  "including  one  of  your 
tenants." 

"  Are  you  my  tenant  ? "  asked  Mr.  Juxon  pleasantly, 
and  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  I  have  taken  the  cottage." 

"  The  cottage  ?  Excuse  me,  but  you  know  I  am  a 
stranger  here — what  is  the  cottage  ? " 

"Such  a  pretty  place,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
"just  opposite  the  park  gate.  You  must  have  seen 
it  as  you  came  down." 

"Oh,  is  that  it  ?"  said  the  squire.  "Yes,  I  saw  it, 
and  I  wished  I  lived  there  instead  of  in  the  Hall.  It 
looks  so  comfortable  and  small.  The  Hall  is  a  perfect 
wilderness." 

Mrs.  Goddard  felt  a  sudden  fear  lest  her  new  land- 


52  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

lord  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  give  her  notice. 
She  only  took  the  cottage  by  the  year  and  her  present 
lease  ended  in  October.  The  arrival  of  a  squire  in 
possession  at  the  Hall  was  a  catastrophe  to  which  she 
had  not  looked  forward.  The  idea  troubled  her.  She 
had  accidentally  made  Mr.  Juxon's  acquaintance,  and 
she  knew  enough  of  the  world  to  understand  that  in 
such  a  place  he  would  regard  her  as  a  valuable 
addition  to  the  society  of  the  vicar  and  the  vicar's 
wife.  She  would  meet  him  constantly ;  there  would 
be  visitors  at  the  Hall — she  would  have  to  meet 
them,  too.  Her  dream  of  solitude  was  at  an  end. 
For  a  moment  she  seemed  so  nervous  that  Mr.  Juxon 
observed  her  embarrassment  and  supposed  it  was 
due  to  his  remark  about  living  in  the  cottage  him 
self. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said  quickly, 
"  I  am  not  going  to  do  anything  so  uncivil  as  to  ask 
you  to  give  up  the  cottage.  Besides,  it  would  be  too 
small,  you  know." 

"  Have  you  any  family,  Mr.  Juxon  ? "  inquired  Mrs. 
Ambrose  with  a  severity  which  startled  the  squire. 
Mrs.  Ambrose  thought  that  if  there  was  a  Mrs.  Juxon, 
she  had  been  unpardonably  deceived.  Of  course  Mr. 
Juxon  should  have  said  that  he  was  married  as  soon 
as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  I  have  a  very  large  family,"  answered  the  squire, 
and  after  enjoying  for  a  moment  the  surprise  he  saw 
in  Mrs.  Ambrose's  face,  he  added  with  a  laugh,  "  I 
have  a  library  of  ten  thousand  volumes — a  very  large 
family  indeed.  Otherwise  I  have  no  encumbrances, 
thank  heaven." 

"  You  are  a  scholar  ?"  asked  Mr.  Ambrose  eagerly. 

"A    book   fancier,  only   a  book  fancier,"  returned 


IV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          53 

the  squire  modestly.  "  But  I  am  very  fond  of  the 
fancy." 

"  What  is  a  book  fancier,  mamma  ?"  asked  little 
Eleanor  in  a  whisper.  But  Mr.  Juxon  heard  the 
child's  question. 

"If  your  mamma  will  bring  you  up  to  the  Hall 
one  of  these  days,  Miss  Goddard,  I  will  show  you. 
A  book  fancier  is  a  terrible  fellow  who  has  lots  of 
books,  and  is  pursued  by  a  large  evil  genius  telling 
him  he  must  buy  every  book  he  sees,  and  that  he 
will  never  by  any  possibility  read  half  of  them  before 
he  dies." 

Little  Eleanor  stared  for  a  moment  with  her  great 
violet  eyes,  and  then  turning  again  to  her  mother, 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

"  Mamma,  he  called  me  Miss  Goddard !" 

"Run  out  and  play  in  the  garden,  darling,"  said 
her  mother  with  a  smile.  But  the  child  would  not 
go  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  and  stared  at  the  squire, 
who  was  immensely  delighted. 

"So  you  are  going  to  bring  all  your  library,  Mr. 
Juxon  ? "  asked  the  vicar  returning  to  the  charge. 

"  Yes — and  I  beg  you  will  make  any  use  of  it  you 
please,"  answered  the  visitor.  "  I  have  a  great  fond 
ness  for  books  and  I  think  I  have  some  valuable 
volumes.  But  I  am  no  great  scholar,  as  you  are, 
though  I  read  a  great  deal.  I  have  always  noticed 
that  the  men  who  accumulate  great  libraries  do  not 
know  much,  and  the  men  who  know  a  great  deal  have 
very  few  books.  Now  I  will  wager  that  you  have 
not  a  thousand  volumes  in  your  house,  Mr.  Ambrose." 

"Five  hundred  would  be  nearer  the  mark,"  said 
the  vicar. 

"  The  fewer  one  has  the  nearer  one  approaches  to 


54  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Aquinas's  homo  unius  libri,"  returned  the  squire. 
"You  are  nine  thousand  five  hundred  degrees  nearer 
to  ideal  -wisdom  than  I  am." 

Mr.  Ambrose  laughed. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  said,  "  You  may  be  sure  that  if 
you  give  me  leave  to  use  your  books,  I  will  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  permission.  It  is  in  writing  sermons 
that  one  feels  the  want  of  a  good  library." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  an  awful  bore  to  write 
sermons,"  remarked  the  squire  with  such  perfect  in 
nocence  that  both  the  vicar  and  Mrs.  Goddard  laughed 
loudly.  But  Mrs.  Ambrose  eyed  Mr.  Juxon  with 
renewed  severity. 

"  I  should  fancy  it  would  be  a  much  greater  bore, 
as  you  call  it,  to  the  congregation  if  my  husband  never 
wrote  any  new  ones,"  she  said  stiffly.  Whereat  the 
squire  looked  rather  puzzled,  and  coloured  a  little. 
But  Mr.  Ambrose  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  wife  is  quite  right.  There  are 
no  people  with  such  terrible  memories  as  church 
wardens.  They  remember  a  sermon  twenty  years  old. 
But  as  you  say,  the  writing  of  sermons  is  not  an  easy 
task  when  a  man  has  been  at  it  for  thirty  years  and 
more.  A  man  begins  by  being  enthusiastic,  then  his 
mind  gets  into  a  groove  and  for  some  time,  if  he 
happens  to  like  the  groove,  he  writes  very  well.  But 
by  and  by  he  has  written  all  there  is  to  be  said  in 
the  particular  line  he  has  chosen  and  he  does  not 
know  how  to  choose  another.  That  is  the  time  when 
a  man  needs  a  library  to  help  him." 

"  I  really  don't  think  you  have  reached  that  point, 
Mr.  Ambrose,"  remarked  Mrs.  Goddard.  She  admired 
the  vicar  and  liked  his  sermons. 

"  You  are  fortunately  not  in   the  position   of  my 


IV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  55 

churchwardens,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose.  "  You  have 
not  been  listening  to  me  for  thirty  years." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  my  tenant,  Mrs.  God- 
dard  ?"  asked  the  squire. 

"  Nearly  two  years,"  she  answered  thoughtfully,  and 
her  sad  eyes  rested  a  moment  upon  Mr.  Juxon's  face 
with  an  expression  he  remembered.  Indeed  he  looked 
at  her  very  often  and  as  he  looked  his  admiration 
increased,  so  that  when  he  rose  to  take  his  leave  the 
predominant  impression  of  the  vicarage  which  remained 
in  his  mind  was  that  of  her  face.  Something  of  the 
same  fascination  took  hold  of  him  which  had  seized 
upon  John  Short  when  he  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Goddard 
through  the  open  door  of  the  study,  something  of  that 
unexpected  interest  which  in  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  at  first 
aroused  a  half  suspicious  dislike,  now  long  forgotten. 

Before  the  squire  left  he  invited  the  whole  party  to 
come  and  dine  with  him  at  the  Hall  on  the  following 
Saturday.  He  must  have  some  kind  of  a  house  warm 
ing,  he  said,  for  he  was  altogether  too  lonely  up  there. 
Mrs.  Goddard  would  bring  Eleanor,  of  course ;  they 
would  dine  early — it  would  not  be  late  for  the  little 
girl.  If  they  all  liked  they  could  call  it  tea  instead 
of  dinner.  Of  course  everything  was  topsy-turvy  in 
the  Hall,  but  they  would  excuse  that.  He  hoped  to 
establish  friendly  relations  with  his  vicar  and  with  his 
tenant — his  fair  tenant.  Might  he  call  soon  and  see 
whether  there  was  anything  that  could  be  done  to 
improve  the  cottage  ?  Before  the  day  when  they  were 
all  coming  to  dine  ?  He  would  call  to-morrow,  then. 
Anything  that  needed  doing  should  be  done,  Mrs. 
Goddard  might  be  sure.  When  the  books  arrived  he 
would  let  Mr.  Ambrose  know,  of  course,  and  they 
would  have  a  day  together. 


56  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

So  he  went  away,  leaving  the  impression  that  he 
was  a  very  good-natured  and  agreeable  man.  Even 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  mollified.  He  had  shocked  her  by 
his  remark  about  sermon  writing,  but  he  had  of  course 
not  meant  it,  and  he  appeared  to  mean  to  be  very 
civil.  It  was  curious  to  see  how  all  severity  vanished 
from  Mrs.  Ambrose's  manner  so  soon  as  the  stranger 
who  aroused  it  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  She 
appeared  as  a  formidably  stern  type  of  the  British 
matron  to  the  chance  visitors  who  came  to  the  vicarage  ; 
but  they  were  no  sooner  gone  than  her  natural  temper 
was  restored  and  she  was  kindness  and  geniality  itself. 

But  Mrs.  Goddard  was  very  thoughtful.  She  was 
not  pleased  at  the  fact  of  an  addition  to  the  Billings- 
field  community,  and  yet  she  liked  the  appearance  of 
the  squire.  He  had  declared  his  intention  of  calling 
upon  her  on  the  following  day,  and  she  would  be 
bound  to  receive  him.  She  was  young,  she  had  been 
shut  off  from  the  world  for  two  years,  and  the  prospect 
of  Mr.  Juxon's  acquaintance  was  in  itself  not  un 
pleasant  ;  but  the  idea  that  he  was  to  be  permanently 
established  in  the  Hall  frightened  her.  She  had  felt 
since  she  came  to  Billingsfield  that  from  the  very  first 
she  had  put  herself  upon  a  footing  of  safety  by  telling 
her  story  to  the  vicar.  But  the  vicar  would  not  with 
out  her  permission  repeat  that  story  to  Mr.  Juxon. 
Was  she  herself  called  upon  to  do  so  ?  She  was  a 
very  sensitive  woman,  and  her  impressionable  nature 
had  been  strongly  affected  by  what  she  had  suffered. 
An  almost  morbid  fear  of  seeming  to  make  false  pre 
tences  possessed  her.  She  was  more  than  thirty  years 
of  age,  it  is  true,  but  she  saw  plainly  enough  in  her 
glass  that  she  was  more  than  passably  good-looking 
still.  There  were  one  or  two  gray  threads  in  her 


iv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          57 

brown  waving  hair  and  she  took  no  trouble  to  remove 
them ;  no  one  ever  noticed  them.  There  were  one  or 
two  lines,  very  faint  lines,  in  her  forehead ;  no  one 
ever  saw  them.  She  could  hardly  see  them  herself. 
Supposing — why  should  she  not  suppose  it  ? — suppos 
ing  Mr.  Juxon  were  to  take  a  fancy  to  her,  as  a  lone 
bachelor  of  forty  and  odd  might  easily  take  a  fancy  to 
a  pretty  woman  who  was  his  tenant  and  lived  at  his 
gate,  what  should  she  do  ?  He  was  an  honest  man, 
and  she  was  a  conscientious  woman ;  she  could  not 
deceive  him,  if  it  came  to  that.  She  would  have  to 
tell  him  the  whole  truth.  As  she  thought  of  it,  she 
turned  pale  and  trembled.  And  yet  she  had  liked 
his  face,  she  had  told  him  he  might  call  at  the  cottage, 
and  her  woman's  instinct  foresaw  that  she  was  to  see 
him  often.  It  was  not  vanity  which  made  her  think 
that  the  squire  might  grow  to  like  her  too  much.  She 
had  had  experiences  in  her  life  and  she  knew  that  she 
was  attractive ;  the  very  fear  she  had  felt  for  the  last 
two  years  lest  she  should  be  thrown  into  the  society  of 
men  who  might  be  attracted  by  her,  increased  her 
apprehension  tenfold.  She  could  not  look  forward  with 
indifference  to  the  expected  visit,  for  the  novelty  of 
seeing  any  one  besides  the  vicar  and  his  wife  was  too 
great ;  she  could  not  refuse  to  see  the  squire,  for  he 
would  come  again  and  again  until  she  received  him ; 
and  yet,  she  could  not  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  there 
was  danger  in  seeing  him.  Call  it  as  one  may,  that 
woman's  instinct  of  peril  is  rarely  at  fault. 

In  the  late  twilight  of  the  June  evening  Mrs.  God- 
dard  and  Eleanor  walked  home  together  by  the  broad 
road  which  led  towards  the  park  gate. 

"  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Juxon  is  very  kind,  mamma  ?" 
asked  the  child. 


58  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

"  Yes,  darling,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is.  It  was  very 
good  of  him  to  ask  you  to  go  to  the  Hall." 

"And  he  called  me  Miss  Goddard,"  said  Eleanor. 
"  I  wonder  whether  he  will  always  call  me  Miss  God 
dard." 

"  He  did  not  know  your  name  was  Nellie,"  explained 
her  mother. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  nobody  knew,  mamma.  It  was  so 
nice.  When  shall  I  be  grown  up,  mamma?" 

"  Soon,  my  child — too  soon,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard 
with  a  sigh.  Nellie  looked  at  her  mother  and  was 
silent  for  a  minute. 

"Mamma,  do  you  like  Mr.  Juxon?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"  No,  dear — how  can  one  like  anybody  one  has  only 
seen  once  ?" 

"  Oh — but  I  thought  you  might,"  said  Nellie. 
"  Don't  you  think  you  will,  mamma  ?  Say  you  will 
—do!" 

"  Why  ?"  asked  her  mother  in  some  surprise.  "  I 
cannot  say  anything  about  it.  I  daresay  he  is  very 
nice." 

"  It  will  be  so  delightful  to  go  to  the  Hall  to  dinner 
and  be  waited  on  by  big  real  servants — not  like  Susan 
at  the  vicarage,  or  Martha.  Won't  you  like  it,  mamma  ? 
Of  course  Mr.  Juxon  will  have  real  servants,  just  like — 
like  poor  papa."  Nellie  finished  her  speech  rather 
doubtfully  as  though  not  sure  how  her  mother  would 
take  it.  Mrs.  Goddard  sighed  again,  but  said  nothing. 
She  could  not  stop  the  child's  talking — why  should 
Nellie  not  speak  of  her  father  ?  Nellie  did  not  know. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  perfectly  delightful,"  said  Nellie, 
seeing  she  got  no  answer  from  her  mother,  and  as 
though  putting  the  final  seal  of  affirmation  to  her 


IV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.          59 

remarks  about  the  Hall.  But  she  appeared  to  be 
satisfied  at  not  having  been  contradicted  and  did  not 
return  to  the  subject  that  evening. 

Mr.  Juxon  lost  no  time  in  keeping  his  word  and  on 
the  following  morning  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  when 
Mrs.  Goddard  was  just  hearing  the  last  of  Nellie's 
lesson  in  geography  and  little  Nellie  herself  was 
beginning  to  be  terribly  tired  of  acquiring  knowledge 
in  such  very  warm  weather,  the  squire's  square  figure 
was  seen  to  emerge  from  the  park  gate  opposite,  clad 
in  gray  knickerbockers  and  dark  green  stockings,  a 
rose  in  his  buttonhole  and  a  thick  stick  in  his  hand, 
presenting  all  the  traditional  appearance  of  a  thriving 
country  gentleman  of  the  period.  He  crossed  the 
road,  stopped  a  moment  and  whistled  his  dog  to  heel 
and  then  opened  the  wicket  gate  that  led  to  the 
cottage.  Nellie  sprang  to  the  window  in  wild  excite 
ment. 

"Oh  what  a  dog!"  she  cried.  "Mamma,  do  come 
and  see  !  And  Mr.  Juxon  is  coming,  too — he  has 
green  stockings  !" 

But  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  not  prepared  for  so 
early  a  visit,  hastily  put  away  what  might  be  described 
as  the  debris  of  Nellie's  lessons,  to  wit,  a  much  thumbed 
book  of  geography,  a  well  worn  spelling  book,  a  very 
particularly  inky  piece  of  blotting  paper,  a  pen  of 
which  most  of  the  stock  had  been  subjected  to  the 
continuous  action  of  Nellie's  teeth  for  several  months, 
and  an  ancient  doll,  without  the  assistance  of  which, 
as  a  species  of  Stokesite  memoria  technica,  Nellie 
declared  that  she  could  not  say  her  lessons  at  all. 
Those  things  disappeared,  and,  with  them,  Nellie's 
troubles,  into  a  large  drawer  set  apart  for  the  purpose. 
By  the  time  Mr.  Juxon  had  rung  the  bell  and  Martha's 


60  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

answering  footstep  was  beginning  to  echo  in  the  small 
passage,  Mrs.  Goddard  had  passed  to  the  consideration 
of  Nellie  herself.  Nellie's  fingers  were  mightily  inky, 
but  in  other  respects  she  was  presentable. 

"Eun  and  wash  your  hands,  child,  and  then  you 
may  come  back,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Oh  mamma,  must  I  go  ?  He's  just  coming  in." 
She  gave  one  despairing  look  at  her  little  hands,  and 
then  ran  away.  The  idea  of  missing  one  moment  of 
Mr.  Juxon's  visit  was  bitter,  but  to  be  caught  with 
inky  fingers  by  a  beautiful  gentleman  with  green 
stockings  and  a  rose  in  his  coat  would  be  more  terribly 
humiliating  still.  There  was  a  sound  as  of  some 
gigantic  beast  plunging  into  the  passage  as  the  front 
door  was  opened,  and  a  scream  of  terror  from  Martha 
followed  by  a  good-natured  laugh  from  the  squire. 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,  but  he  don't  bite,  sir,  does 
he  ?  Oh  my  !  what  a  dog  he  is,  sir " 

"  Is  Mrs.  Goddard  in  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Juxon,  hold 
ing  the  hound  by  the  collar.  Martha  opened  the  door 
of  the  little  sitting-room  and  the  squire  looked  in. 
Martha  fled  down  the  passage. 

"  Oh  my !  What  a  tremendious  dog  that  is,  to  be 
sure ! "  she  was  heard  to  exclaim  as  she  disappeared 
into  the  back  of  the  cottage. 

"  May  I  come  in  ? "  asked  Mr.  Juxon,  rather  timidly 
and  with  an  expression  of  amused  perplexity  on  his 
brown  face.  "  Lie  down,  Stamboul !  " 

"  Oh,  bring  him  in,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  coming 
forward  and  taking  Mr.  Juxon's  hand.  "  I  am  so 
fond  of  dogs."  Indeed  she  was  rather  embarrassed 
and  was  glad  of  the  diversion. 

"He  is  really  very  quiet,"  said  the  squire  apolo 
getically,  "  only  he  is  a  little  impetuous  about  getting 


IV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.          61 

into  a  house."  Then,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Goddard  looked 
at  the  enormous  animal  with  some  interest  and  much 
wonder,  he  added,  "he  is  a  Eussian  bloodhound — 
perhaps  you  never  saw  one  ?  He  was  given  to  me  in 
Constantinople,  so  I  call  him  Stamboul — good  name 
for  a  big  dog  is  not  it  ? " 

"  Very,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  rather  nervously.  Stam 
boul  was  indeed  an  exceedingly  remarkable  beast. 
Taller  than  the  tallest  mastiff,  he  combined  with  his 
gigantic  strength  and  size  a  grace  and  swiftness  of 
motion  which  no  mastiff  can  possess.  His  smooth 
clean  coat,  of  a  perfectly  even  slate  colour  throughout, 
was  without  folds,  close  as  a  greyhound's,  showing 
every  articulation  and  every  swelling  muscle  of  his 
body.  His  broad  square  head  and  monstrous  jaw 
betrayed  more  of  the  quickness  and  sudden  ferocity  of 
the  tiger  than  those  suggested  by  the  heavy,  lion-like 
jowl  of  the  English  mastiff.  His  ears,  too,  were 
close  cropped,  in  accordance  with  the  Eussian  fashion, 
a,nd  somehow  the  compactness  this  gave  to  his  head 
seemed  to  throw  forward  and  bring  into  prominence 
his  great  fiery  eyes,  that  reflected  red  lights  as  he 
moved,  and  did  not  tend  to  inspire  confidence  in  the 
timid  stranger. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  when  the 
squire  was  seated  Stamboul  sat  himself  down  upon  his 
haunches  beside  him,  and  looked  slowly  from  his 
master  to  the  lady  and  back  again,  his  tongue  hanging 
out  as  though  anxious  to  hear  what  they  might  have 
to  say  to  each  other. 

"  I  thought  I  should  be  sure  to  find  you  in  the 
morning,"  began  Mr.  Juxon,  after  a  pause.  "  I  hope 
I  have  not  disturbed  you  ? " 

"Oh,  not  at  all.    Nellie  has  just  finished  her  lessons." 


62          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.        CHAP. 

"The  fact  is,"  continued  the  squire,  "that  I  was 
going  to  survey  the  nakedness  of  the  land  which  has 
fallen  to  my  lot,  and  as  I  came  out  of  the  park  I  saw 
the  cottage  right  before  me  and  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  calling.  I  had  no  idea  we  were  such 
near  neighbours." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  it  is  very  near." 
Mr.  Juxon  glanced  round  the  room.  He  was  not 
exactly  at  a  loss  for  words,  but  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not 
seem  inclined  to  encourage  the  conversation.  He 
saw  that  the  room  was  not  only  exceedingly  comfort 
able  but  that  its  arrangement  betrayed  a  considerable 
taste  for  luxury.  The  furniture  was  of  a  kind  not 
generally  seen  in  cottages,  and  appeared  to  have 
formed  part  of  some  great  establishment.  The  carpet 
itself  was  of  a  finer  and  softer  kind  than  any  at  the 
Hall.  The  writing-table  was  a  piece  of  richly  inlaid 
work,  and  the  implements  upon  it  were  of  the  solid, 
severe  and  valuable  kind  that  are  seen  in  rich  men's 
houses.  A  clock  which  was  undoubtedly  of  the 
Louis  Quinze  period  stood  upon  the  chimney-piece. 
On  the  walls  were  hung  three  or  four  pictures  which, 
Mr.  Juxon  thought,  must  be  both  old  and  of  great 
value.  Upon  a  little  table  by  the  fireplace  lay  four 
or  five  objects  of  Chinese  jade  and  Japanese  ivory  and 
a  silver  chatelaine  of  old  workmanship.  The  squire 
saw,  and  wondered  why  such  a  very  pretty  woman, 
who  possessed  such  very  pretty  things,  should  choose 
to  come  and  live  in  his  cottage  in  the  parish  of 
Billingsfield.  And  having  seen  and  wondered  he 
became  interested  in  his  charming  tenant  and  en 
deavoured  to  carry  on  the  conversation  in  a  more 
confidential  strain. 


V.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          63 


CHAPTEE  V. 

"  You  have  done  more  towards  beautifying  the  cottage 
than  I  could  have  hoped  to  do,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  lean 
ing  back  in  his  chair  and  resting  one  hand  on  Stam- 
boul's  great  head. 

"It  was  very  pretty  of  itself,"  answered  Mrs. 
Goddard,  "  and  fortunately  it  is  not  very  big,  or  my 
things  would  look  lost  in  it." 

"  I  should  not  say  that — you  have  so  many  beauti 
ful  things.  They  seem  to  suit  the  place  so  well.  I 
am  sure  you  will  never  think  of  taking  them  away." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it — I  am  too  glad  to  be  quiet." 

"  You  have  travelled  a  great  deal,  Mrs.  Goddard  ? " 
asked  the  squire. 

"  No — not  exactly  that — only  a  little,  after  all.  I 
have  not  been  to  Constantinople  for  instance,"  she 
added  looking  at  the  hound  Mr.  Juxon  had  brought 
from  the  East.  "  You  are  indeed  a  traveller." 

"  I  have  travelled  all  my  life,"  said  the  squire, 
indifferently,  as  though  the  subject  of  his  wanderings 
did  not  interest  him.  "  From  what  little  I  have  seen 
of  Billingsfield  I  fancy  you  will  find  all  the  quiet  you 
could  wish,  here.  Really,  I  realise  that  at  my  own 
gate  I  must  come  to  you  for  information.  What  sort 
of  man  is  that  excellent  rector  down  there,  whom  I 
met  last  night  ?  " 


64  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

The  squire's  tone  became  more  confidential  as  he 
put  the  question. 

"  Well — he  is  not  a  rector,  to  begin  with,"  answered 
Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  smile,  "he  is  the  vicar,  and  he 
is  a  most  good  man,  whom  I  have  always  found  most 
kind." 

"  I  can  readily  fancy  that,"  said  Mr.  Juxon.  "  But 
his  wife  seems  to  be  of  the  severe  type." 

"No — she  struck  me  so  at  first,  too.  I  think  it  is 
only  with  strangers.  She  is  such  a  motherly  sort  of 
woman,  you  do  not  know  !  She  only  has  that  little 
manner  when  you  first  meet  her." 

"  What  a  strange  thing  that  is ! "  remarked  the 
squire,  looking  at  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  The  natural  belief 
of  English  people  in  each  other's  depravity  until  they 
have  had  time  to  make  acquaintance !  And  is  there 
no  one  else  here — no  doctor — no  doctor's  wife  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  There  is 
a  doctor,  but  the  vicarage  suspects  him  of  free  thought. 
He  certainly  never  goes  to  church.  He  has  no  wife." 

"This  is  the  most  Arcadian  retreat  I  ever  was  in. 
Upon  my  word,  I  am  a  very  lucky  man." 

"  I  suppose  that  it  must  be  a  relief  when  one  has 
travelled  so  much,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  Or  suffered  very  much,"  added  the  squire,  half 
unconsciously,  looking  at  her  sad  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  At  that  moment  the  door 
opened  and  Nellie  entered  the  room,  having  success 
fully  grappled  with  the  inkstains.  She  went  straight 
to  the  squire,  and  held  out  her  hand,  blushing  a  little, 
but  looking  very  pretty.  Then  she  saw  the  huge 
head  of  Stamboul  who  looked  up  at  her  with  a 
ferociously  agreeable  canine  smile,  and  thwacked  the 
carpet  with  his  tail  as  he  sat ;  Nellie  started  back. 


V.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          65 

"  Oh,  what  a  dog ! "  she  exclaimed.  But  very  soon 
she  was  on  excellent  terms  with  him;  little  Nellie 
was  not  timid,  and  Stamboul,  who  liked  people  who 
were  not  afraid  of  him  and  was  especially  fond  of 
children,  did  his  best  to  be  amusing. 

"  He  is  a  very  good  dog,"  remarked  Mr.  Juxon. 
"  He  once  did  me  a  very  good  service." 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  riding  in  the  Belgrade  forest  one  summer. 
I  was  alone  with  Stamboul  following.  A  couple  of 
ruffians  tried  to  rob  me.  Stamboul  caught  one  of 
them." 

"  Did  he  hurt  him  very  much  ? " 

"  I  don't  know — he  killed  him  before  the  fellow 
could  scream,  and  I  shot  the  other,"  replied  the  squire 
calmly. 

"  What  a  horrible  story  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard, 
turning  pale.  "  Come  here,  Nellie — don't  touch  that 
dreadful  dog ! " 

"  Do  not  be  afraid — he  is  perfectly  harmless.  Come 
here  Stamboul !  "  The  huge  beast  obeyed,  wagging 
his  tail,  and  sat  down  at  his  master's  feet,  still  looking 
rather  wistfully  at  Nellie  who  had  been  playing  with 
him.  "  You  see,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon,  "  he  is  as 
quiet  as  a  lamb — would  not  hurt  a  fly  ! " 

"  I  think  it  is  dreadful  to  have  such  animals  about," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard  in  a  low  voice,  still  looking  at  the 
dog  with  horror. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  told  you.  It  may  prejudice  you 
against  him.  I  only  meant  to  explain  how  faithful 
he  is,  that  is  all.  You  see  a  man  grows  fond  of  a 
creature  that  has  saved  his  life." 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  it  is  rather  startling  to  see  such 
an  animal  so  near  to  one.  I  fear  I  am  very  nervous." 

F 


66  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  the  squire  with  the  bold  ir 
relevancy  of  a  man  who  wants  to  turn  the  subject, 
"  are  you  fond  of  flowers  ? " 

"  I  ? "  said  Mrs.  Goddard  in  surprise.  "  Yes — very. 
Why  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  mind  if  I  had  the  garden 
here  improved  a  little.  One  might  put  in  a  couple  of 
frames.  I  did  not  see  any  flowers  about.  I  am  so 
fond  of  them  myself,  you  see,  that  I  always  look  for 
them." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  But  I  would  not  have  you  take  any  trouble  on  my 
account.  "We  are  so  comfortable  and  so  fond  of  the 
cottage  already " 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  grow  to  like  it  even  better," 
returned  the  squire  with  a  genial  smile.  "  Anything 
I  can  do,  you  know — "  he  rose  as  though  to  take  his 
leave.  "  Excuse  me,  but  may  I  look  at  that  picture  ? 
Andrea  del  Sarto  ?  Yes,  I  thought  so — wonderful — 
upon  my  word,  in  a  cottage  in  Billingsfield.  Where 
did  you  find  it  ? " 

"  It  was  my  husband's,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Ah — ah,  yes,"  said  the  squire  in  a  subdued  tone. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added,  as  people  often  do, 
unconsciously,  when  they  fancy  they  have  accidentally 
roused  in  another  a  painful  train  of  thought.  Then 
he  turned  to  go.  "  We  dine  at  half-past  seven,  you 
know,  so  as  to  be  early  for  Miss  Nellie,"  he  said,  as  he 
went  out. 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  glad  he  was  gone,  though  she  felt 
that  he  was  not  unsympathetic.  The  story  of  the  dog 
had  frightened  her,  and  her  own  mention  of  her  hus 
band  had  made  her  nervous  and  sad.  More  than  ever 
she  felt  that  fear  of  being  in  a  false  position,  which 


V.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          67 

had  assailed  her  when  she  had  first  met  the  squire  on 
the  previous  evening.  He  had  at  once  opened  rela 
tions  with  her  in  a  way  which  showed  that  he  intended 
to  be  intimate ;  he  had  offered  to  improve  her  cottage, 
had  insisted  upon  making  frames  in  her  garden,  had 
asked  her  to  dinner  with  the  Ambroses  and  had  estab 
lished  the  right  to  talk  to  her  whenever  he  got  a 
chance.  He  interested  her,  too,  which  was  worse.  His 
passing  references  to  his  travels  and  to  his  adventures, 
of  which  he  spoke  with  the  indifference  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  danger,  his  unassuming  manner,  his 
frank  ways — everything  about  him  awakened  her  in 
terest.  She  had  supposed  that  in  two  years  the  very 
faculty  of  being  interested  by  a  man  would  be  dulled 
if  not  destroyed ;  she  found  to  her  annoyance  that 
though  she  had  seen  Mr.  Juxon  only  twice  she  could 
not  put  him  out  of  her  thoughts.  She  was,  moreover, 
a  nervous,  almost  morbid,  woman,  and  the  natural 
result  of  trying  to  forget  his  existence  was  that  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else. 

How  much  better  it  would  be,  she  thought,  if  he 
knew  her  story  from  the  first.  He  might  then  be  as 
friendly  as  he  pleased ;  there  would  be  no  danger  in 
it,  to  him  or  to  her.  She  almost  determined  to  go  at 
once  and  ask  the  vicar's  advice.  But  by  the  time  she 
had  nearly  made  up  her  mind  it  was  the  hour  for 
luncheon,  and  little  Nellie's  appetite  was  exigent.  By 
the  time  lunch  was  over  her  determination  had  changed. 
She  had  reflected  that  the  vicar  would  think  her  morbid, 
that,  with  his  usual  good  sense,  he  would  say  there 
was  no  necessity  for  telling  the  squire  anything ;  in 
deed,  that  to  do  so  would  be  undignified.  If  the 
squire  were  indeed  going  to  lead  the  life  of  a  recluse 
as  he  proposed  doing,  he  was  not  really  a  man  to 


68  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

cause  her  any  apprehension.  If  he  had  travelled  about 
the  world  for  forty  years  without  having  his  heart  dis 
turbed  by  any  of  the  women  he  must  have  met  in  that 
time,  he  was  certainly  not  the  kind  of  man,  when  once 
he  had  determined  to  settle  in  his  home,  to  fall 
in  love  with  the  first  pretty  woman  he  met.  It  was 
absurd ;  there  was  no  likelihood  of  it ;  it  was  her  own 
miserable  vanity,  she  told  herself,  which  made  the  thing 
seem  probable,  and  she  would  not  think  any  more 
about  it.  She,  a  woman  thirty-one  years  of  age,  with 
a  daughter  who  ere  long  would  be  growing  up  to 
womanhood !  To  be  afraid  of  a  mere  stranger  like 
Mr.  Juxon — afraid  lest  he  should  fall  in  love  with 
her  !  Could  anything  be  more  ridiculous  ?  Her  duty 
was  to  live  quietly  as  she  had  lived  before,  to  take  no 
more  notice  of  the  squire  than  was  necessary  in  order 
to  be  civil,  and  so  all  would  be  well. 

And  so  it  seemed  for  a  long  time.  The  squire  im 
proved  the  garden  of  the  cottage  and  Mrs.  Goddard 
and  Nellie,  with  the  Ambroses,  dined  at  the  Hall, 
which  at  first  seemed  an  exceedingly  dreary  and  dismal 
place,  but  which,  as  they  returned  thither  again  and 
again,  grew  more  and  more  luxurious,  till  the  trans 
formation  was  complete.  Mr.  Juxon  brought  all 
manner  of  things  to  the  house ;  vans  upon  vans  ar 
rived,  laden  with  boxes  of  books  and  pictures  and 
oriental  carpets  and  rare  objects  which  the  squire  had 
collected  in  his  many  years  of  travel,  and  which  he 
appeared  to  have  stored  in  London  until  he  had  at 
last  inherited  the  Hall.  The  longer  the  Ambroses  and 
Mrs.  Goddard  knew  him,  the  more  singularly  impressed 
they  were  with  his  reticence  concerning  himself.  He 
appeared  to  have  been  everywhere,  to  have  seen  every 
thing,  and  he  had  certainly  brought  back  a  vast  collec- 


V.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  69 

tion  of  more  or  less  valuable  objects  from  his  travels, 
besides  the  large  library  he  had  accumulated  and  which 
contained  many  rare  and  curious  editions  of  ancient 
books.  He  was  evidently  a  man  of  very  good  educa 
tion,  and  a  much  better  scholar  than  he  was  willing  to 
allow.  The  vicar  delighted  in  his  society  and  when 
the  two  found  themselves  together  in  the  great  room 
which  Mr.  Juxon  had  lined  with  well-filled  shelves, 
they  remained  for  hours  absorbed  in  literary  and 
scholastic  talk.  But  whenever  the  vicar  approached 
the  subject  of  the  squire's  past  life,  the  latter  became 
vague  and  gave  ambiguous  answers  to  any  direct 
questions  addressed  to  him.  He  evidently  disliked 
talking  of  himself,  though  he  would  talk  about  any 
thing  else  that  occurred  to  him  with  a  fluency  which 
Mrs.  Ambrose  declared  was  the  only  un-English  thing 
about  him.  The  consequence  was  that  the  vicar  be 
came  more  and  more  interested  in  his  new  acquaint 
ance,  and  though  the  squire  was  so  frank  and  honest 
a  man  that  it  was  impossible  to  suspect  him  of  any 
doubtful  action  in  the  past,  Mr.  Ambrose  suspected 
that  he  had  a  secret.  Indeed  after  hearing  the  story 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  confided  to  his  ears,  nothing  would 
have  surprised  the  vicar.  After  finding  that  so  good,  so 
upright  and  so  honourable  a  woman  as  the  fair  tenant 
of  the  cottage  could  be  put  into  such  a  singularly 
painful  position  as  that  in  which  she  now  found  her 
self,  it  was  not  hard  to  imagine  that  this  singular 
person  who  had  inherited  the  Hall  might  also  have 
some  weighty  reason  for  loving  the  solitude  of  Bil- 
lingsfield. 

To  chronicle  the  small  events  which  occurred  in 
that  Arcadian  parish,  would  be  to  overstep  the  bounds 
of  permissible  tediousness.  In  such  places  all  events 


70  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

move  slowly  and  take  long  to  develop  to  their 
results.  The  passions  which  in  our  own  quickly 
moving  world  spring  up,  flourish,  wither  and  are  cut 
down  in  a  month  require,  when  they  are  not  stimu 
lated  by  the  fertilising  heat  of  artificial  surroundings,  a 
longer  period  for  their  growth ;  and  when  that  growth 
is  attained  they  are  likely  to  be  stronger  and  more 
deeply  rooted.  It  is  not  true  that  the  study  of  them 
is  less  interesting,  nor  that  they  have  less  importance 
in  themselves.  The  difficulty  of  narrative  is  greater 
when  they  are  to  be  described,  for  it  is  necessary  to 
carry  the  imagination  in  a  short  time  over  a  long 
period,  to  show  how  from  small  incidents  great  re 
sults  follow,  and  to  show  also  how  the  very  limited 
and  trivial  nature  of  the  surroundings  may  cause 
important  things  to  be  overlooked.  Amidst  such  in 
fluences  acquaintance  is  soon  made  between  the  few 
persons  so  thrown  together,  but  each  is  apt  to  regard 
such  new  acquaintance  merely  as  bearing  upon  his  or 
her  own  particular  interests.  It  is  surprising  to  see 
how  people  will  live  side  by  side  in  solitude,  even  in 
danger,  in  distant  settlements,  in  the  mining  districts 
of  the  West,  in  up-country  stations  in  India,  on  board 
ship,  even,  for  months  and  years,  without  knowing 
anything  of  each  other's  previous  history ;  whereas  in 
the  crowded  centres  of  civilisation  and  society  the  first 
questions  are  "Where  does  he  come  from?"  "What 
are  his  antecedents?"  "What  has  he  done  in  the 
world  ?"  And  unless  a  man  can  answer  such  inquiries 
to  the  general  satisfaction  he  is  likely  to  be  heavily 
handicapped  in  the  social  race.  But  in  more  primitive 
situations  men  are  ruled  by  more  primitive  feelings  of 
mutual  respect;  it  is  considered  that  a  man  should 
not  be  pressed  to  speak  of  things  he  shows  no  desire 


V.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          71 

to  discuss  and  that,  provided  he  does  not  interfere  with 
his  neighbour's  wellbeing,  his  past  life  is  nobody's 
business.  One  may  feel  curiosity  concerning  him,  but 
under  no  circumstances  is  one  justified  in  asking  ques 
tions. 

For  these  reasons,  although  Mr.  Juxon's  arrival  and 
instalment  in  the  Hall  were  regarded  with  satisfaction 
by  the  little  circle  at  Billingsfield,  while  he  himself 
was  at  once  received  into  intimacy  and  treated  with 
cordial  friendliness,  he  nevertheless  represented  in  the 
minds  of  all  an  unsolved  enigma.  And  to  the  squire 
the  existence  of  one  of  the  circle  was  at  least  as  prob 
lematical  as  his  own  life  could  seem  to  any  of  them. 
The  more  he  saw  of  Mrs.  Goddard,  the  more  he  won 
dered  at  her  and  speculated  about  her  and  the  less  he 
dared  to  ask  her  any  questions.  But  he  understood 
from  Mr.  Ambrose's  manner,  that  the  vicar  at  least 
was  in  possession  of  her  secret,  and  he  inferred  from 
what  he  was  able  to  judge  about  the  vicar's  character 
that  the  latter  was  not  a  man  to  extend  his  friendship 
to  any  one  who  did  not  deserve  it.  Whatever  Mrs. 
Goddard's  story  was,  he  felt  sure  that  her  troubles  had 
not  been  caused  by  her  own  misconduct.  She  was  in 
every  respect  what  he  called  a  good  woman.  Of  course, 
too,  she  was  a  widow ;  the  way  in  which  she  spoke  of 
her  husband  implied  that,  on  those  rare  occasions  when 
she  spoke  of  him  at  all.  Charles  James  Juxon  was 
a  gentleman,  whatever  course  of  life  he  had  followed 
before  settling  in  the  country,  and  he  did  not  feel 
that  he  should  be  justified  in  asking  questions  about 
Mrs.  Goddard  of  the  vicar.  Besides,  as  time  went  on 
and  he  found  his  own  interest  in  her  increasing,  he 
began  to  nourish  the  hope  that  he  might  one  day  hear 
her  story  from  her  own  lips.  In  his  simplicity  it  did 


72  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

not  strike  him  that  he  himself  had  grown  to  be  an 
object  of  interest  to  her. 

Somehow,  during  the  summer  and  autumn  of  that 
year,  Mrs.  Goddard  contracted  a  habit  of  watching  the 
park  gate  from  the  window  of  the  cottage,  particularly 
at  certain  hours  of  the  day.  It  was  only  a  habit,  but 
it  seemed  to  amuse  her.  She  used  to  sit  in  the  small 
bay  window  with  her  books,  reading  to  herself  or 
teaching  Nellie,  and  it  was  quite  natural  that  from 
time  to  time  she  should  look  out  across  the  road.  But 
it  rarely  happened,  when  she  was  installed  in  that 
.particular  place,  that  Mr.  Juxon  failed  to  appear  at 
the  gate,  with  his  dog  Staniboul,  his  green  stockings, 
his  stick  and  the  inevitable  rose  in  his  coat.  More 
over  he  generally  crossed  the  road  and,  if  he  did  not 
enter  the  cottage  and  spend  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
conversation,  he  at  least  spoke  to  Mrs.  Goddard  through 
the  open  window.  It  was  remarkable,  too,  that  as 
time  went  on  what  at  first  had  seemed  the  result  of 
chance,  recurred  with  such  invariable  regularity  as  to 
betray  the  existence  of  a  fixed  rule.  Nellie,  too,  who 
was  an  observant  child,  had  ceased  asking  questions 
but  watched  her  mother  with  her  great  violet  eyes  in 
a  way  that  made  Mrs.  Goddard  nervous.  Nellie  liked 
the  squire  very  much  but  though  she  asked  her  mother 
very  often  at  first  whether  she,  too,  was  fond  of  that 
nice  Mr.  Juxon,  the  answers  she  received  were  not  en 
couraging.  How  was  it  possible,  Mrs.  Goddard  asked, 
to  speak  of  liking  anybody  one  had  known  so  short  a 
time  ?  And  as  Nellie  was  quite  unable  to  answer 
such  an  inquiry,  she  desisted  from  her  questions  and 
applied  herself  to  the  method  of  personal  observation. 
But  here,  too,  she  was  met  by  a  hopeless  difficulty. 
The  squire  and  her  mother  never  seemed  to  have  any 


v.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  73 

secrets,  as  Nellie  would  have  expressed  it.  They  met 
daily,  and  daily  exchanged  very  much  the  same  remarks 
concerning  the  weather,  the  garden,  the  vicar's  last 
sermon.  When  they  talked  about  anything  else,  they 
spoke  of  books,  of  which  the  squire  lent  Mrs.  Goddard 
a  great  number.  But  this  was  a  subject  which  did 
not  interest  Nellie  very  much;  she  was  not  by  any 
means  a  prodigy  in  the  way  of  learning,  and  though 
she  was  now  nearly  eleven  years  old  was  only  just 
beginning  to  read  the  Waverley  novels.  On  one  occa 
sion  she  remarked  to  her  mother  that  she  did  not 
believe  a  word  of  them  and  did  not  think  they  were  a 
bit  like  real  life,  but  the  momentary  fit  of  scepticism 
soon  passed  and  Nellie  read  on  contentedly,  not 
omitting  however  to  watch  her  mother  in  order  to 
find  out,  as  her  small  mind  expressed  it,  "  whether 
mamma  really  liked  that  nice  Mr.  Juxon."  Events 
were  slowly  preparing  themselves  which  would  help 
her  to  come  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion  upon  that 
matter. 

Mr.  Juxon  himself  was  in  a  very  uncertain  state 
of  mind.  After  knowing  Mrs.  Goddard  for  six 
months,  and  having  acquired  the  habit  of  seeing  her 
almost  every  day,  he  found  to  his  surprise  that  she 
formed  a  necessary  part  of  his  existence.  It  need 
not  have  surprised  him,  for  in  spite  of  that  lady's 
surmise  with  regard  to  his  early  life,  he  was  in  reality 
a  man  of  generous  and  susceptible  temperament.  He 
recognised  in  the  charming  tenant  of  the  cottage  many 
qualities  which  he  liked,  and  he  could  not  deny  that 
she  was  exceedingly  pretty.  Being  a  strong  man  he 
was  particularly  attracted  by  the  pathetic  expression 
of  her  face,  the  perpetual  sadness  that  was  visible 
there  when  she  was  not  momentarily  interested  or 


74  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  OHAP. 

amused.  Had  he  suspected  her  paleness  and  air  of 
secret  suffering  to  be  the  result  of  any  physical  in 
firmity,  she  would  not  have  interested  him  so  much. 
But  Mrs.  Goddard's  lithe  figure  and  easy  grace  of 
activity  belied  all  idea  of  weakness.  It  was  un 
doubtedly  some  hidden  suffering  of  mind  which  lent 
that  sadness  to  her  voice  and  features,  and  which  so 
deeply  roused  the  sympathies  of  the  squire.  At  the 
end  of  six  months  Mr.  Juxon  was  very  much  in 
terested  in  Mrs.  Goddard,  but  despite  all  his  efforts  to 
be  agreeable  he  seemed  to  have  made  no  progress 
whatever  in  the  direction  of  banishing  her  cares.  To 
tell  the  truth,  it  did  not  enter  his  mind  that  he  was 
in  love  with  her.  She  was  his  tenant ;  she  was  evi 
dently  very  unhappy  about  something ;  it  was  there 
fore  undeniably  his  duty  as  a  landlord  and  as  a 
gentleman  to  make  life  easy  for  her. 

He  wondered  what  the  matter  could  be.  At  first 
he  had  been  inclined  to  think  that  she  was  poor  and 
was  depressed  by  poverty.  But  though  she  lived 
very  simply,  she  never  seemed  to  be  in  difficulties. 
Five  hundred  pounds  a  year  go  a  long  way  in  the 
village  of  Billingsfield.  It  was  certainly  not  want  of 
money  which  made  her  unhappy.  The  interest  of  the 
sum  represented  by  the  pictures  hung  in  her  little 
sitting-room,  not  to  mention  the  other  objects  of  value 
she  possessed,  would  have  been  alone  sufficient  to 
afford  her  a  living.  The  squire  himself  would  have 
given  her  a  high  price  for  these  things,  but  in  six 
months  she  never  in  the  most  distant  manner  sug 
gested  that  she  wished  to  part  with  them.  The  idea 
then  naturally  suggested  itself  to  Mr.  Juxon's  mind 
that  she  was  still  mourning  for  her  husband,  and  that 
she  would  probably  continue  to  mourn  for  him  until 


v.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          75 

some  one,  himself  for  instance,  succeeded  in  consoling 
her  for  so  great  a  loss. 

The  conclusion  startled  the  squire.  That  was  not 
precisely  the  part  he  contemplated  playing,  nor  the 
species  of  consolation  he  proposed  to  offer.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  indeed  a  charming  woman,  and  the 
squire  liked  charming  women  and  delighted  in  their 
society.  But  Mr.  Juxon  was  a  bachelor  of  more  than 
forty  years  standing,  and  he  had  never  regarded 
marriage  as  a  thing  of  itself,  for  himself,  desirable. 
He  immediately  thrust  the  idea  from  his  mind  with 
a  mental  "  vade  retro  Satanas  ! "  and  determined  that 
things  were  very  agreeable  in  their  present  state,  and 
might  go  on  for  ever ;  that  if  Mrs.  Goddard  was  un 
happy  that  did  not  prevent  her  from  talking  very 
pleasantly  whenever  he  saw  her,  which  was  nearly 
every  day,  and  that  her  griefs  were  emphatically  none 
of  his  business.  Before  very  long  however  Mr. 
Juxon  discovered  that  though  it  was  a  very  simple 
thing  to  make  such  a  determination  it  was  a  very 
different  thing  to  keep  it.  Mrs.  Goddard  interested 
him  too  much.  When  he  was  with  her  he  was  per 
petually  longing  to  talk  about  herself  instead  of  about 
the  weather  and  the  garden  and  the  books,  and  once 
or  twice  he  was  very  nearly  betrayed  into  talking 
about  himself,  a  circumstance  so  extraordinary  that 
Mr.  Juxon  imagined  he  must  be  either  ill  or  going 
mad,  and  thought  seriously  of  sending  for  the  doctor. 
He  controlled  the  impulse,  however,  and  temporarily 
recovered ;  but  strange  to  say  from  that  time  forward 
the  conversation  languished  when  he  found  himself 
alone  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  it  seemed  very  hard  to 
maintain  their  joint  interest  in  the  weather,  the 
garden  and  the  books  at  the  proper  standard  of  in- 


76  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

tensity.  They  had  grown  intimate,  and  familiarity 
had  begun  to  breed  a  contempt  of  those  petty  sub 
jects  upon  which  their  intimacy  had  been  founded. 
It  is  not  clear  why  this  should  be  so,  but  it  is  true, 
nevertheless,  and  many  a  couple  before  Charles  Juxon 
and  Mary  Goddard  had  found  it  out.  As  the  in 
terest  of  two  people  in  each  other  increases  their 
interest  in  things,  as  things,  diminishes  in  like  ratio, 
and  they  are  very  certain  ultimately  to  reach  that 
point  described  by  the  Frenchman's  maxim — "  a  man 
should  never  talk  to  a  woman  except  of  herself  or 
himself." 

If  Mr.  Juxon  was  not  in  love  with  Mary  Goddard 
he  was  at  least  rapidly  approaching  a  very  dangerous 
state ;  for  he  saw  her  every  day  and  could  not  let 
one  day  go  by  without  seeing  her,  and  moreover  he 
grew  silent  in  her  company,  to  a  degree  which  em 
barrassed  her  and  made  him  feel  himself  more  stupid 
than  he  had  ever  dreamed  possible  ;  so  that  he  would 
sometimes  stay  too  long,  in  the  hope  of  finding  some 
thing  to  say,  and  sometimes  he  would  leave  her 
abruptly  and  go  and  shut  himself  up  with  his  books, 
and  busy  himself  with  his  catalogues  and  his  bind 
ings  and  the  arrangement  of  his  rare  editions.  One 
day  at  last,  he  felt  that  he  had  behaved  so  very 
absurdly  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  sud 
denly  disappeared  for  nearly  a  week.  When  he 
returned  he  said  he  had  been  to  town  to  attend  a 
great  sale  of  books,  which  was  perfectly  true ;  he 
did  not  add  that  the  learned  expert  he  employed 
in  London  could  have  done  the  business  for  him 
just  as  well.  But  the  trip  had  done  him  no  good,  for 
lie  grew  more  silent  than  ever,  and  Mrs.  Goddard 
even  thought  his  brown  face  looked  a  shade  paler; 


v.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          77 

but  that  might  have  been  the  effect  of  the  winter 
weather.  Ordinary  sunburn  she  reflected,  as  she 
looked  at  her  own  white  skin  in  the  mirror,  will 
generally  wear  off  in  six  months,  though  freckles 
will  not. 

If  Mr.  Juxon  was  not  in  love,  it  would  be  very 
hard  to  say  what  Mary  Goddard  felt.  It  was  not 
true  that  time  was  effacing  the  memory  of  the  great 
sorrow  she  had  suffered.  It  was  there  still,  that 
memory,  keen  and  sharp  as  ever ;  it  would  never  go 
away  again  so  long  as  she  lived.  But  she  had  been 
soothed  by  the  quiet  life  in  Billingsfield ;  the  evi 
dences  of  the  past  had  been  removed  far  from  her, 
she  had  found  in  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose  one 
of  those  rare  and  manly  natures  who  can  keep  a  secret 
for  ever  without  ever  referring  to  its  existence  even 
witli  the  person  who  has  confided  it.  For  a  few  days 
she  had  hesitated  whether  to  ask  the  vicar's  advice 
about  Mr.  Juxon  or  not.  She  had  thought  it  her  duty 
to  allow  Mr.  Ambrose  to  tell  the  squire  whatever  he 
thought  fit  of  her  own  story.  But  she  had  changed 
her  mind,  and  the  squire  had  remained  in  ignorance. 
It  was  best  so,  she  thought ;  for  now,  after  more  than 
six  months,  Mr.  Juxon  had  taken  the  position  of  a 
friend  towards  her,  and,  as  she  thought,  showed  no 
disposition  whatever  to  overstep  the  boundaries  of 
friendship.  The  regularity  of  his  visits  and  the 
sameness  of  the  conversation  seemed  of  themselves  a 
guarantee  of  his  simple  goodwill.  It  did  not  strike 
her  as  possible  that  if  he  were  going  to  fall  in  love 
with  her  at  all,  that  catastrophe  should  be  postponed 
beyond  six  months  from  their  first  acquaintance. 
Nor  did  it  seem  extraordinary  to  her  that  she  should 
actually  look  forward  to  those  visits,  and  take  pleasure 


78  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  OHAP. 

in  that  monotonous  intercourse.  Her  life  was  very 
quiet ;  it  was  natural  that  she  should  take  whatever 
diversion  came  in  her  way,  and  should  even  be  thank 
ful  for  it.  Mr.  Juxon  was  an  honest  gentleman,  a 
scholar  and  a  man  who  had  seen  the  world.  If  what 
he  said  was  not  always  very  original  it  was  always 
very  true,  a  merit  not  always  conceded  to  the  highest 
originality.  He  spoke  intelligently ;  he  told  her  the 
news ;  he  lent  her  the  newest  books  and  reviews,  and 
offered  her  his  opinions  upon  them,  with  the  regu 
larity  of  a  daily  paper.  In  such  a  place,  where  com 
munications  with  the  outer  world  seemed  as  difficult 
as  at  the  antipodes,  and  where  the  remainder  of 
society  was  limited  to  the  household  of  the  vicarage, 
what  wonder  was  it  if  she  found  Mr.  Juxon  an  agree 
able  companion,  and  believed  the  companionship 
harmless  ? 

But  far  down  in  the  involutions  of  her  feminine 
consciousness  there  was  present  a  perpetual  curiosity 
in  regard  to  the  squire,  a  curiosity  she  never  expected 
to  satisfy,  but  was  wholly  unable  to  repress.  Under 
the  influence  of  this  feeling  she  made  remarks  from 
time  to  time  of  an  apparently  harmless  nature,  but 
which  in  the  squire  promoted  that  strange  inclination 
to  talk  about  himself,  which  he  had  lately  observed 
and  which  caused  him  so  much  alarm.  He  said  to 
himself  that  he  had  nothing  to  be  concealed,  and  that 
if  any  one  had  asked  him  direct  questions  concerning 
his  past  he  would  have  answered  them  boldly  enough. 
But  he  knew  himself  to  be  so  singularly  averse  to 
dwelling  on  his  own  affairs  that  he  wondered  why  he 
should  now  be  impelled  to  break  through  so  good 
a  rule.  Indeed  he  had  not  the  insight  to  perceive 
that  Mrs.  Goddard  lost  no  opportunity  of  leading  him 


V.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.          79 

to  the  subject  of  his  various  adventures,  and,  if  he 
had  suspected  it,  he  would  have  been  very  much 
surprised. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  were  far  from  guessing  what 
an  intimacy  had  sprung  up  between  the  two.  Both 
the  cottage  and  the  Hall  lay  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  vicarage,  and  though  Mrs.  Ambrose  occa 
sionally  went  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard  at  irregular  hours 
in  the  morning  and  afternoon,  it  was  remarkable  that 
the  squire  never  called  when  she  was  there.  Once 
Mrs.  Ambrose  arrived  during  one  of  his  visits,  but 
thought  it  natural  enough  that  Mr.  Juxon  should 
drop  in  to  see  his  tenant.  Indeed  when  she  called 
the  two  were  talking  about  the  garden — as  usual. 


80  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE   VI. 

JOHN  SHORT  had  almost  finished  his  hard  work  at 
college.  For  two  years  and  a  half  he  had  laboured  on 
acquiring  for  himself  reputation  and  a  certain  amount 
of  more  solid  advantage  in  the  shape  of  scholarships. 
Never  in  that  time  had  he  left  Cambridge  even  for  a 
day  unless  compelled  to  do  so  by  the  regulations  of 
his  college.  His  father  had  found  it  hard  to  induce 
him  to  come  up  to  town ;  and,  being  in  somewhat 
easier  circumstances  since  John  had  declared  that  he 
needed  no  further  help  to  complete  his  education,  he 
had  himself  gone  to  see  his  son  more  than  once.  But 
John  had  never  been  to  Billingsfield  and  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  there. 
At  last,  however,  Short  felt  that  he  must  have  some 
rest  before  he  went  up  for  honours ;  he  had  grown 
thin  and  even  pale ;  his  head  ached  perpetually,  and 
his  eyes  no  longer  seemed  so  good  as  they  had  been. 
He  went  to  a  doctor,  and  the  doctor  told  him  that 
with  his  admirable  constitution  a  few  days  of  absolute 
rest  would  do  all  that  was  necessary.  John  wrote  to 
Mr.  Ambrose  to  say  that  he  would  at  last  accept  the 
invitation  so  often  extended  and  would  spend  the 
week  between  Christmas  and  New  Year's  day  at 
Billingsfield. 

There  were  great  rejoicings  at  the  vicarage.     John 


VI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          81 

had  never  been  forgotten  for  a  day  since  he  had  left, 
each  successive  step  in  his  career  had  been  hailed  with 
hearty  delight,  and  now  that  at  last  he  was  coming 
back  to  rest  himself  for  a  week  before  the  final  effort 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  as  enthusiastic  as  her  husband. 
Even  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  not  quite  sure  whether 
she  had  ever  seen  John  or  not,  and  the  squire  who  had 
certainly  never  seen  him,  joined  in  the  general  excite 
ment.  Mrs.  Goddard  asked  the  entire  party  to  tea  at 
the  cottage  and  the  squire  asked  them  to  come  and 
skate  at  the  Hall  and  to  dine  afterwards;  for  the 
weather  was  cold  and  the  vicar  said  John  was  a  very 
good  skater.  Was  there  anything  John  could  not  do  ? 
There  was  nothing  he  could  not  do  much  better  than 
anybody  else,  answered  Mr.  Ambrose;  and  the  good 
clergyman's  pride  in  his  pupil  was  perhaps  not 
the  less  because  he  had  at  first  received  him  on 
charitable  considerations,  and  felt  that  if  he  had 
risked  much  in  being  so  generous  he  had  also  been 
amply  rewarded  by  the  brilliant  success  of  his  under 
taking. 

When  John  arrived,  everybody  said  he  was  "  so 
much  improved."  He  had  got  his  growth  now,  being 
close  upon  one  and  twenty  years  of  age ;  his  blue  eyes 
were  deeper  set ;  his  downy  whiskers  had  disappeared 
and  a  small  moustache  shaded  his  upper  lip ;  he  looked 
more  intellectual  but  not  less  strong,  though  Mrs. 
Ambrose  said  he  was  dreadfully  pale — perhaps  he  owed 
some  of  the  improvement  observed  in  his  appearance 
to  the  clothes  he  wore.  Poor  boy,  he  had  been  but 
scantily  supplied  in  the  old  days;  he  looked  pros 
perous,  now,  by  comparison. 

"  We  have  had  great  additions  to  our  society,  since 
you  left  us,"  said  the  vicar.  "  We  have  got  a  squire 

G 


82  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

at  the  Hall,  and  a  lady  with  a  little  girl  at  the 
cottage." 

"  Such  a  nice  little  girl,"  remarked  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

When  John  found  out  that  the  lady  at  the  cottage 
was  no  other  than  the  lady  in  black  to  whom  he  had 
lost  his  heart  two  years  and  a  half  before,  he  was  con 
siderably  surprised.  It  would  be  absurd  to  suppose 
that  the  boyish  fancy  which  had  made  so  much  romance 
in  his  life  for  so  many  months  could  outlast  the 
excitements  of  the  University.  It  would  be  absurd  to 
dignify  such  a  fancy  by  any  serious  name.  He  had 
grown  to  be  a  man  since  those  days  and  he  had  put 
away  childish  things.  He  blushed  to  remember  that 
he  had  spent  hours  in  writing  odes  to  the  beautiful 
unknown,  and  whole  nights  in  dreaming  of  her  face. 
And  yet  he  could  remember  that  as  much  as  a  year 
after  he  had  left  Billingsfield  he  still  thought  of  her  as 
his  highest  ideal  of  woman,  and  still  occasionally  com 
posed  a  few  verses  to  her  memory,  regretting,  perhaps, 
the  cooling  of  his  poetic  ardour.  Then  he  had  gradu 
ally  lost  sight  of  her  in  the  hard  work  which  made  up 
his  life.  Profound  study  had  made  him  more  prosaic 
and  he  believed  that  he  had  done  with  ideals  for  ever, 
after  the  manner  of  many  clever  young  fellows  who  at 
one  and  twenty  feel  that  they  are  separated  from  the 
follies  of  eighteen  by  a  great  and  impassable  gulf. 
The  gulf,  however,  was  not  in  John's  case  so  wide  nor 
so  deep  but  what,  at  the  prospect  of  being  suddenly 
brought  face  to  face,  and  made  acquainted,  with  her 
who  for  so  long  had  seemed  the  object  of  a  romantic 
passion,  he  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  surprise  and  embar 
rassment.  Those  meetings  of  later  years  generally 
bring  painful  disillusion.  How  many  of  us  can  re 
member  some  fair-haired  little  girl  who  in  our  child- 


VI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          83 

hood  represented  to  us  the  very  incarnation  of  femi 
nine  grace  and  beauty,  for  whom  we  fetched  and 
carried,  for  whom  we  bound  nosegays  on  the  heath  and 
stole  apples  from  the  orchard  and  climbed  upon  the 
table  after  desert,  if  we  were  left  alone  in  the  dining- 
room,  to  lay  hands  on  some  beautiful  sweetmeat 
wrapped  in  tinsel  and  fringes  of  pink  paper — have  we 
not  met  her  again  in  after-life,  a  grown  woman,  very, 
very  far  from  our  ideal  of  feminine  grace  and  beauty  ? 
And  still  in  spite  of  changes  in  herself  and  ourselves 
there  has  clung  to  her  memory  through  all  those  years 
enough  of  romance  to  make  our  heart  beat  a  little 
faster  at  the  prospect  of  suddenly  meeting  her,  enough 
to  make  us  wonder  a  little  regretfully  if  she  was 
at  all  like  the  little  golden -haired  child  we  loved 
long  ago. 

But  with  John  the  feeling  was  stronger  than  that. 
It  was  but  two  years  and  a  half  since  he  had  seen 
Mrs.  Goddard,  and,  not  even  knowing  her  name,  had 
erected  for  her  a  pedestal  in  his  boyish  heart.  There 
was  moreover  about  her  a  mystery  still  unsolved. 
There  was  something  odd  and  strange  in  her  one  visit 
to  the  vicarage,  in  the  fact  that  the  vicar  had  never 
referred  to  that  visit  and,  lastly,  it  seemed  unlike  Mr. 
Ambrose  to  have  said  nothing  of  her  settlement  in 
Billingsfield  in  the  course  of  all  the  letters  he  had 
written  to  John  since  the  latter  had  left  him.  John 
dwelt  upon  the  name — Goddard — but  it  held  no 
association  for  him.  It  was  not  at  all  like  the  names 
he  had  given  her  in  his  imagination.  He  wondered 
what  she  would  be  like  and  he  felt  nervously  anxious 
to  meet  her.  Somehow,  too,  what  he  heard  of  the 
squire  did  not  please  him  ;  he  felt  an  immediate  an 
tagonism  to  Mr.  Juxon,  to  his  books,  to  his  amateur 


84  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

scholarship,  even  to  his  appearance  as  described  by 
Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  said  he  was  such  a  thorough 
Englishman  and  wondered  how  he  kept  his  hair  so 
smooth. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  judging  for  himself  of  what  Mr.  Ambrose  called 
the  recent  addition  to  Billingsfield  society.  On  the 
very  afternoon  of  his  arrival  the  vicar  proposed  to  walk 
up  to  the  Hall  and  have  a  look  at  the  library,  and 
John  readily  assented.  It  was  Christmas  Eve  and  the 
weather,  even  in  Essex,  was  sharp  and  frosty.  The 
muddy  road  was  frozen  hard  and  the  afternoon  sun, 
slanting  through  the  oak  trees  that  bordered  the  road 
beyond  the  village,  made  no  perceptible  impression  on 
the  cold.  The  two  men  walked  briskly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  park  gate.  Before  they  had  quite  reached 
it  however,  the  door  of  the  cottage  opposite  was  opened, 
and  Stamboul,  the  Kussian  bloodhound,  bounded  down 
the  path,  cleared  the  wicket  gate  in  his  vast  stride, 
and  then  turning  suddenly  crouched  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  to  wait  for  his  master.  But  the  dog  instantly 
caught  sight  of  the  vicar,  with  whom  he  was  on  very 
good  terms,  and  trotted  slowly  up  to  him,  thrusting 
his  great  nose  into  his  hand,  and  then  proceeding 
to  make  acquaintance  with  John.  He  seemed  to 
approve  of  the  stranger,  for  he  gave  a  short  sniff  of 
satisfaction  and  trotted  back  to  the  wicket  of  the 
cottage.  At  this  moment  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie 
came  out,  followed  by  the  squire  arrayed  in  his  inevit 
able  green  stockings.  There  was  however  no  rose  in 
his  coat.  Whether  the  greenhouses  at  the  Hall  had 
failed  to  produce  any  in  the  bitter  weather,  or  whether 
Mr.  Juxon  had  transferred  the  rose  from  his  coat  to 
the  possession  of  Mrs.  Goddard,  is  uncertain.  The 


VI.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  85 

three  came  out  into  the  road  where  the  vicar  and  John 
stood  still  to  meet  them. 

"  Mrs.  Goddard,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  this  is  Mr. 
Short,  of  whom  you  have  heard — John,  let  me  intro 
duce  you  to  Mr.  Juxon." 

John  felt  that  he  blushed  violently  as  he  took  Mrs. 
Goddard's  hand.  He  would  not  have  believed  that 
he  could  feel  so  much  embarrassed,  and  he  hated 
himself  for  betraying  it.  But  nobody  noticed  his 
colour.  The  weather  was  bright  and  cold,  and  even 
Mrs.  Goddard's  pale  and  delicate  skin  had  a  rosy 
tinge. 

"  We  were  just  going  for  a  walk,"  she  explained. 

"  And  we  were  going  to  see  you  at  the  Hall,"  said 
the  vicar  to  Mr.  Juxon. 

"  Let  us  do  both,"  said  the  latter.  "  Let  us  walk  to 
the  Hall  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  "We  can  look  at  the 
ice  and  see  whether  it  will  bear  to-inorrow." 

Everybody  agreed  to  the  proposal,  and  it  so  fell  out 
that  the  squire  and  the  vicar  went  before  while  John 
and  Mrs.  Goddard  followed  and  Nellie  walked  between 
them,  holding  Stamboul  by  the  collar,  and  talking  to 
him  as  she  went.  John  looked  at  his  companion,  and 
saw  with  a  strange  satisfaction  that  his  first  impression, 
the  impression  he  had  cherished  so  long,  had  not  been 
a  mistaken  one.  Her  deep  violet  eyes  were  still  sad, 
beautiful  and  dreamy.  Her  small  nose  was  full  of 
expression,  and  was  not  reddened  by  the  cold  as  noses 
are  wont  to  be.  Her  rich  brown  hair  waved  across 
her  forehead  as  it  did  on  that  day  when  John  first  saw 
her ;  and  now  as  he  spoke  with  her,  her  mouth  smiled, 
as  he  had  been  sure  it  would.  John  felt  a  curious 
sense  of  pride  in  her,  in  finding  that  he  had  not  been 
deceived,  that  this  ideal  of  whom  he  had  dreamed  was 


86  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

really  and  truly  very  good  to  look  at.  He  knew  little 
of  the  artist's  rules  of  beauty;  lie  had  often  looked 
with  wonder  at  the  faces  in  the  illustrations  to  Dr. 
Smith's  classical  dictionary,  and  had  tried  to  under 
stand  where  the  beauty  of  them  lay,  and  at  Cambridge 
he  had  seen  and  studied  with  interest  many  photo 
graphs  and  casts  from  the  antiques.  But  to  his  mind 
the  antique  would  not  bear  comparison  for  a  moment 
with  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  resembled  no  engraving  nor 
photograph  nor  cast  he  had  ever  seen. 

And  she,  too,  looked  at  him,  and  said  to  herself  that 
he  did  not  look  like  what  she  had  expected.  He 
looked  like  a  lean,  fresh  young  Englishman  of  moder 
ate  intelligence  and  in  moderate  circumstances.  And 
yet  she  knew  that  he  was  no  ordinary  young  fellow, 
that  he  was  wonderfully  gifted,  in  fact,  and  likely  to 
make  a  mark  in  the  world.  She  resolved  to  take  a 
proper  interest  in  him. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  have  heard  so  much 
about  you,  that  I  feel  as  though  I  had  met  you  before, 
Mr.  Short." 

"  We  really  have  met,"  said  John.  "  Do  you  re 
member  that  hot  day  when  you  came  to  the  vicarage 
and  I  waked  up  Muggins  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes — was  that  you  ?  You  have  changed.  That 
is,  I  suppose  I  did  not  see  you  very  well  in  the 
hurry." 

"  I  suppose  I  have  changed  in  two  years  and  a  half. 
I  was  only  a  boy  then,  you  know.  But  how  have 
you  heard  so  much  about  me  ? " 

"  Billingsfield,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  is  not  a  large  place.  The  Ambroses  are  very 
fond  of  you  and  always  talk  of  what  you  are  doing." 

"  And    so    you    really    live    here,   Mrs.    Goddard  ? 


VI.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  87 

How  long  is  it  since  you  came  ?  Mr.  Ambrose  never 
told  me " 

"  I  have  been  here  more  than  two  years — two  years 
last  October,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"  The  very  year  I  left — only  a  month  after  I  was 
gone.  How  strange  !  " 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  up  nervously.  She  was 
frightened  lest  John  should  have  made  any  deductions 
from  the  date  of  her  arrival.  But  John  was  thinking 
in  a  very  different  train  of  thought. 

"  Why  is  it  strange  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  hardly  know,"  said  John  in  considerable 
embarrassment.  "  I  was  only  thinking — about  you — 
that  is,  about  it  all." 

The  answer  did  not  tend  to  quiet  Mrs.  Goddard's 
apprehensions. 

"  About  me  ? "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  should  you 
think  about  me  ?  " 

"  It  was  very  foolish,  of  course,"  said  John. 
"  Only,  when  I  caught  sight  of  you  that  day  I  was 
very  much  struck.  You  know,  I  was  only  a  boy, 
then.  I  hoped  you  would  come  back — but  you  did 
not."  He  blushed  violently,  and  then  glanced  at  his 
companion  to  see  whether  she  had  noticed  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not  come  back  for  some 
time." 

"  And  then  I  was  gone.  Mr.  Ambrose  never  told 
me  you  had  come." 

"  Why  should  he  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  think  he  might.  You  see 
Billingsfield  has  been  a  sort  of  home  to  me,  and  it  is 
a  small  place ;  so  I  thought  he  might  have  told  me 
the  news." 

"  I  suppose  he  thought  it  would  not  interest  you," 


88  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  why 
it  should.  But  you  must  be  very  fond  of  the  place, 
are  you  not  ? " 

"  Very.  As  I  was  saying,  it  is  very  like  home  to 
me.  My  father  lives  in  town  you  know — that  is  not 
at  all  like  home.  One  always  associates  the  idea  of 
home  with  the  country,  and  a  vicarage  and  a  Hall,  and 
all  that." 

"  Does  one  ? "  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  picking  her  way 
over  the  frozen  mud  of  the  road.  "  Take  care,  Nellie,  it 
is  dreadfully  slippery  ! " 

"  How  much  she  has  grown,"  remarked  John, 
looking  at  the  girl's  active  figure  as  she  walked  before 
them.  "  She  was  quite  a  little  girl  when  I  saw  her 
first." 

"  Yes,  she  grows  very  fast,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard 
rather  regretfully. 

"You  say  that  as  though  you  were  sorry." 

"  I  ?  No.  I  am  glad  to  see  her  grow.  What  a 
funny  remark." 

"  I  thought  you  spoke  sadly,"  explained  John. 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  Only  she  is  coming  to  the  awkward 
age." 

"  She  is  coming  to  it  very  gracefully,"  said  John, 
who  wanted  to  say  something  pleasant. 

"That  is  the  most  any  of  us  can  hope  to  do," 
answered  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  little  smile.  "  We  all 
have  our  awkward  age,  I  suppose." 

"  I  should  not  think  you  could  remember  yours." 

"  Why  ?  Do  you  think  it  was  so  very  long  ago  ?  " 
Mrs.  Goddard  laughed. 

"No — I  cannot  believe  you  ever  had  any,"  said 
John. 

The  boyish  compliment  pleased  Mrs.  Goddard.     It 


vr.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  89 

was  long  since  any  one  had  flattered  her,  for  flattery 
did  not  enter  into  the  squire's  system  for  making  him 
self  agreeable. 

"  Do  they  teach  that  sort  of  thing  at  Cambridge  ? " 
she  asked  demurely. 

"  What  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  Making  little  speeches  to  ladies,"  said  she. 

"No — I  wish  they  did,"  said  John,  laughing. 
"  I  should  know  much  better  how  to  make  them.  We 
learn  how  to  write  Greek  odes  to  moral  abstractions." 

"  What  a  dreadful  thing  to  do ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Goddard. 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  do  not  know.  Now,  for 
instance,  I  have  written  a  great  many  Greek  odes  to 
you " 

"  To  me  ?  "  interrupted  his  companion  in  surprise. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  so  very  extraordinary  ? " 

"  Very." 

"  Well — you  see — I  only  saw  you  once — you  won't 
laugh  ? " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  very  much 
amused,  and  was  beginning  to  think  that  John  Short 
was  the  most  original  young  man  she  had  ever  met. 

"  I  only  saw  you  once,  when  you  came  to  the 
vicarage,  and  I  had  not  the  least  idea  what  your  name 
was.  But  I — I  hoped  you  would  come  back ;  and  so 
I  used  to  write  poems  to  you.  They  were  very  good, 
too,"  added  John  in  a  meditative  tone,  "  I  have  never 
written  any  nearly  so  good  as  they  were." 

"  Eeally  ? "  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him  rather 
incredulously  and  then  laughed. 

"  You  said  you  would  not  laugh,"  objected  John. 

"  I  cannot  help  it  in  the  least,"  said  she.  "  It 
seems  so  funny." 


90          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.        CHAP. 

"  It  did  not  seem  funny  to  me,  I  can  assure  you," 
replied  John  rather  warmly.  "  I  thought  it  very 
serious." 

"  You  don't  do  it  now,  do  you  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Goddard,  looking  up  at  him  quietly. 

"Oh  no — a  man's  ideals  change  so  much,  you  know," 
answered  John,  who  felt  he  had  been  foolishly  betrayed 
into  telling  his  story,  and  hated  to  be  laughed  at. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  How  long  are  you  going 
to  stay  here,  Mr.  Short  ? " 

"  Until  New  Year's  Day,  I  think,"  he  answered. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  have  time  to  forget  about  the  poetry 
before  I  go." 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  noticing  his 
hurt  tone.  "  I  think  it  was  very  pretty — I  mean  the 
way  you  did  it.  You  must  be  a  born  poet — to  write 
verses  to  a  person  you  did  not  know  and  had  only 
seen  once ! " 

"It  is  much  easier  than  writing  verses  to  moral 
abstractions  one  has  never  seen  at  all,"  explained 
John,  who  was  easily  pacified.  "  When  a  man  writes 
a  great  deal  he  feels  the  necessity  of  attaching  all 
those  beautiful  moral  qualities  to  some  real,  living 
person  whom  he  can  see " 

"Even  if  he  only  sees  her  once,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Goddard  demurely. 

"  Yes,  even  if  he  only  sees  her  once.  You  have  no 
idea  how  hard  it  is  to  concentrate  one's  faculties  upon 
a  mere  idea ;  but  the  moment  a  man  sees  a  woman 
whom  he  can  endow  with  all  sorts  of  beautiful  qualities 
— why  it's  just  as  easy  as  hunting." 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  been  of  so  much  service  to  you, 
even  unconsciously — but,  don't  you  think  perhaps 
Mrs.  Ambrose  would  have  done  as  well  ? " 


VI.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  91 

"  Mrs.  Ambrose  ?  "  repeated  John.  Then  he  broke 
into  a  hearty  laugh.  "  No — I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  she  would  not  have  done  as  well.  I  am 
deeply  indebted  to  Mrs.  Ambrose  for  a  thousand  kind 
nesses,  for  a  great  deal  more  than  I  can  tell — but,  on 
the  whole,  I  say,  no ;  I  could  not  have  written  odes  to 
Mrs.  Ambrose." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Besides,  fancy  the  vicar's 
state  of  mind !  She  would  have  had  to  call  him 
in  to  translate  your  poetry." 

"  It  is  very  singular,"  said  John  in  a  tone  of  re 
flection.  "  But,  if  I  had  not  done  all  that,  we  should 
not  be  talking  as  we  are  now,  after  ten  minutes 
acquaintance." 

"  Probably  not,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  No — certainly  not.  By  the  bye,  there  is  the  Hall. 
I  suppose  you  have  often  been  there  since  Mr.  Juxon 
came — what  kind  of  man  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  a  great  traveller,"  answered  his  com 
panion.  "  And  then — well,  he  is  a  scholar  and  has  an 
immense  library ' 

"And  an  immense  dog — yes,  but  I  mean,  what 
kind  of  man  is  he  himself  ? " 

"  He  is  very  agreeable,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  quietly. 
"  Very  well  bred,  very  well  educated.  We  find  him  a 
great  addition  in  Billingsfield." 

"  I  should  think  so,  if  he  is  all  you  say,"  said  John 
discontentedly.  His  antagonism  against  Mr.  Juxon 
was  rapidly  increasing.  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him 
in  some  surprise,  being  very  far  from  understanding 
his  tone. 

"  I  think  you  will  like  him,"  she  said.  "  He  knows 
all  about  you  from  the  Ambroses,  and  he  always 
speaks  of  you  with  the  greatest  admiration." 


92  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

"  Eeally  ?  It  is  awfully  kind  of  him,  I  am  sure. 
I  am  very  much  obliged/'  said  John  rather  con 
temptuously. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  like  that  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Goddard  gravely.  "  You  cannot  possibly  have  any 
cause  for  disliking  him.  Besides,  he  is  a  friend  of 
ours " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  then  it  is  different,"  said  John. 
"  If  he  is  a  friend  of  yours " 

"  Do  you  generally  take  violent  dislikes  to  people 
at  first  sight,  Mr.  Short  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  Not  at  all — at  least,  not  dislikes. 
I  suppose  Mr.  Juxon's  face  reminds  me  of  somebody 
I  do  not  like.  I  will  behave  like  an  angel.  Here 
we  are." 

The  effect  of  this  conversation  upon  the  two  persons 
between  whom  it  took  place  was  exceedingly  different. 
Mrs.  Goddard  was  amused,  without  being  altogether 
pleased.  She  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  re 
freshingly  young  scholar  whom  she  understood  to  be 
full  of  genius.  He  was  enthusiastic,  simple,  seemingly 
incapable  of  concealing  anything  that  passed  through 
his  mind,  unreasonable  and  evidently  very  susceptible. 
On  the  whole,  she  thought  she  should  like  him, 
though  his  scornful  manner  in  speaking  of  the  squire 
had  annoyed  her.  The  interest  she  could  feel  in  him, 
if  she  felt  any  at  all,  would  be  akin  to  that  of  the 
vicar  in  the  boy.  He  was  only  a  boy ;  brilliantly 
talented,  they  said,  but  still  a  mere  boy.  She  was 
fully  ten  years  older  than  he — she  might  almost  be 
his  mother — well,  not  quite  that,  but  very  nearly.  It 
was  amusing  to  think  of  his  writing  odes  to  her.  She 
wished  she  could  see  translations  of  them,  and  she  al 
most  made  up  her  mind  to  ask  him  to  show  them  to  her. 


vi.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          93 

John  on  the  other  hand  experienced  a  curious 
sensation.  He  had  never  before  been  in  the  society  of 
so  charming  a  woman.  He  looked  at  her  and  looked 
again,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  not 
only  charming  but  beautiful.  He  had  not  the  least 
idea  of  her  age ;  it  is  not  the  manner  of  his  kind  to 
think  much  about  the  age  of  a  woman,  provided  she 
is  not  too  young.  The  girl  might  be  ten.  Mrs. 
Goddard  might  have  married  at  sixteen — twenty-six, 
twenty-seven — what  was  that  ?  John  called  himself 
twenty-two.  Five  years  was  simply  no  difference  at 
all !  Besides,  who  cared  for  age  ? 

He  had  suddenly  found  himself  almost  on  a  footing 
of  intimacy  with  this  lovely  creature.  His  odes  had 
served  him  well ;  it  had  pleased  her  to  hear  the  story. 
She  had  laughed  a  little,  of  course ;  but  women,  as  John 
knew,  always  laugh  when  they  are  pleased.  He  would 
like  to  show  her  his  odes.  As  he  walked  through  the 
park  by  her  side  he  felt  a  curious  sense  of  possession 
in  her  which  gave  him  a  thrill  of  exquisite  delight; 
and  when  they  entered  the  Hall  he  felt  as  though  he 
were  resigning  her  to  the  squire,  which  gave  him  a 
corresponding  sense  of  annoyance.  When  an  English 
man  experiences  these  sensations,  he  is  in  love.  John 
resolved  that  whatever  happened  he  would  walk  back 
with  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  squire  cheerily.  "  We  are  not 
so  cold  as  we  used  to  be  up  here." 

A  great  fire  of  logs  was  burning  upon  the  hearth 
in  the  Hall.  Stamboul  stalked  up  to  the  open 
chimney,  scratched  the  tiger's  skin  which  served 
for  a  rug,  and  threw  himself  down  as  though  his 
day's  work  were  done.  Mr.  Juxon  went  up  to  Mrs. 
Goddard. 


94  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  take  off  your  coat,"  he 
said.  "The  house  is  very  warm." 

Mrs.  Goddard  allowed  the  squire  to  help  her  in  re 
moving  the  heavy  black  jacket  lined  and  trimmed 
with  fur,  which  she  wore.  John  eyed  the  proceeding 
uneasily  and  kept  on  his  greatcoat. 

"Thank  you — I  don't  mind  the  heat,"  he  said 
shortly  when  the  squire  suggested  to  him  that  he 
might  be  too  warm.  John  was  in  a  fit  of  contrariety. 
Mrs.  Goddard  glanced  at  him,  as  he  spoke,  and  he 
thought  he  detected  a  twinkle  of  amusement  in  her 
eyes,  which  did  not  tend  to  smooth  his  temper. 

"You  will  have  some  tea,  Mrs.  Goddard  ?"  said  Mr. 
Juxon,  leading  the  way  into  the  library,  which  he  re 
garded  as  the  most  habitable  room  in  the  house.  Mrs. 
Goddard  walked  by  his  side  and  the  vicar  followed, 
while  John  and  Nellie  brought  up  the  rear. 

"  Is  not  it  a  beautiful  place  ?"  said  Nellie,  who  was 
anxious  that  the  new-comer  should  appreciate  the 
magnificence  of  the  HalL 

"  Can't  see  very  well,"  said  John,  "  it  is  so  dark." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  beautiful,"  insisted  Miss  Nellie. 
"And  they  have  lots  of  lamps  here  in  the  evening. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Juxon  will  have  them  lighted  before  we 
go.  He  is  always  so  kind." 

"Is  he  ?"  asked  John  with  a  show  of  interest. 

"Yes — he  brings  mamma  a  rose  every  day,"  said 
Nellie. 

"  Not  really  ? "  said  John,  beginning  to  feel  that  he 
was  justified  in  hating  the  squire  with  all  his  might. 

"Yes — and  books,  too.  Lots  of  them — but  then, 
he  has  so  many.  See,  this  is  the  library.  Is  not  it 
splendid  ! " 

John  looked  about  him  and  was  surprised.     The  last 


vi.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          95 

rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell  across  the  open  lawn  and 
through  the  deep  windows  of  the  great  room,  illuminat 
ing  the  tall  carved  bookcases,  the  heavily  gilt  bindings, 
the  rich,  dark  Eussia  leather  and  morocco  of  the  folios. 
The  footsteps  of  the  party  fell  noiselessly  upon  the 
thick  carpet  and  almost  insensibly  the  voices  of  the 
visitors  dropped  to  a  lower  key.  A  fine  large  wood  fire 
was  burning  on  the  hearth,  carefully  covered  with  a 
metal  netting  lest  any  spark  should  fly  out  and  cause 
damage  to  the  treasures  accumulated  in  the  neighbour 
ing  shelves. 

"  Pray  make  yourself  at  home,  Mr.  Short,"  said  the 
squire,  coming  up  to  John.  "  You  may  find  something 
of  interest  here.  There  are  some  old  editions  of  the 
classics  that  are  thought  rare — some  specimens  of 
Venetian  printing,  too,  that  you  may  like  to  look 
at.  Mr.  Ambrose  can  tell  you  more  about  them 
than  I." 

John's  feeling  of  antagonism,  and  even  his  resent 
ment  against  Mr.  Juxon,  roused  by  Nellie's  innocent 
remark  about  the  roses,  were  not  proof  against  the 
real  scholastic  passion  aroused  by  the  sight  of  rare  and 
valuable  books.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  divested 
himself  of  his  great  coat  and  was  examining  the  books 
with  an  expression  of  delight  upon  his  face  which  was 
pleasant  to  see.  He  glanced  from  time  to  time  at 
the  other  persons  in  the  room  and  looked  very  often 
at  Mrs.  Goddard,  but  on  the  whole  he  was  profoundly 
interested  in  the  contents  of  the  library.  Mrs.  Goddard 
was  installed  in  a  huge  leathern  easy-chair  by  f.he 
fire,  and  the  squire  was  handing  her  one  after  another 
a  number  of  new  volumes  which  lay  upon  a  small  table, 
and  which  she  appeared  to  examine  with  interest. 
Nellie  knew  where  to  look  for  her  favourite  books  of 


96  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

engravings  and  had  curled  herself  up  in  a  corner  ab 
sorbed  in  "  Hyde's  Eoyal  Kesidences."  The  vicar  went 
to  look  for  something  he  wanted  to  consult. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  new  friend  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Goddard  of  the  squire.  She  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
and  did  not  look  up  from  the  new  book  he  had  just 
handed  her. 

"  He  appears  to  have  a  very  peculiar  temper,"  said 
Mr.  Juxon.  "  But  he  looks  clever." 

"  What  do  you  think  he  was  talking  about  as  we 
came  through  the  park  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  What  ? " 

"He  was  saying  that  he  saw  me  once  before  he 
went  to  college,  and — fancy  how  deliciously  boyish  ! 
he  said  he  had  written  ever  so  many  Greek  odes  to 
my  memory  since ! "  Mrs.  Goddard  laughed  a  little 
and  blushed  faintly. 

"  Let  us  hope,  for  the  sake  of  his  success,  that  you 
may  continue  to  inspire  him,"  said  the  squire  gravely. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  the  odes  were  very  good." 

"  So  he  said.     Fancy  !  " 


A  TALE  OF  A. LONELY  PARISH.          97 


CHAPTEE    VII. 

MBS.  GODDARD  did  not  mean  to  walk  home  with  John ; 
but  on  the  other  hand  she  did  not  mean  to  walk 
with  the  squire.  She  revolved  the  matter  in  her  mind 
as  she  sat  in  the  library  talking  in  an  undertone  with 
Mr.  Juxon.  She  liked  the  great  room,  the  air  of 
luxury,  the  squire's  tea  and  the  squire's  conversation. 
It  is  worth  noticing  that  his  flow  of  talk  was  more 
abundant  to-day  than  it  had  been  for  some  time; 
whether  it  was  John's  presence  which  stimulated  Mr. 
Juxon's  imagination,  or  whether  Mrs.  Goddard  had 
suddenly  grown  more  interesting  since  John  Short's 
appearance  it  is  hard  to  say;  it  is  certain  that  Mr. 
Juxon  talked  better  than  usual. 

The  afternoon,  however,  was  far  spent  and  the 
party  had  only  come  to  make  a  short  visit.  Mrs. 
Goddard  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Nellie,  child,  we  must  be  going  home,"  she  said, 
calling  to  the  little  girl  who  was  still  absorbed  in  the 
book  of  engravings  which  she  had  taken  to  the  window 
to  catch  the  last  of  the  waning  light. 

John  started  and  came  forward  with  alacrity.  The 
vicar  looked  up ;  Nellie  reluctantly  brought  her  book 
back. 

"  It  is  very  early,"  objected  the  squire.  "  Really, 
the  days  have  no  business  to  be  so  short." 

H 


98  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  It  would  not  seem  like  Christmas  if  they  were 
long,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  It  does  not  seem  like  Christmas  anyhow,"  remarked 
John,  enigmatically.  No  one  understood  his  observa 
tion  and  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  it.  Whereupon 
John's  previous  feeling  of  annoyance  returned  and  he 
went  to  look  for  his  greatcoat  in  the  dark  corner 
where  he  had  laid  it. 

"  You  must  not  come  all  the  way  back  with  us," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard  as  they  all  went  out  into  the  hall 
and  began  to  put  on  their  warm  things  before  the  fire. 
"  Eeally — it  is  late.  Mr.  Ambrose  will  give  me  his 
arm." 

The  squire  insisted  however,  and  Stamboul,  who 
had  had  a  comfortable  nap  by  the  fire,  was  of  the  same 
opinion  as  his  master  and  plunged  wildly  at  the 
door. 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  arm,  Mr.  Ambrose  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Goddard,  looking  rather  timidly  at  the  vicar  as 
they  stood  upon  the  broad  steps  in  the  sparkling  even 
ing  air.  She  felt  that  she  was  disappointing  both  the 
squire  and  John,  but  she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind. 
She  had  her  own  reasons.  The  vicar,  good  man,  was 
unconsciously  a  little  flattered  by  her  choice,  as  with 
her  hand  resting  on  the  sleeve  of  his  greatcoat  he  led 
the  way  down  the  park.  The  squire  and  John  were 
fain  to  follow  together,  but  Nellie  took  her  mother's 
hand,  and  Stamboul  walked  behind  affecting  an  unusual 
gravity. 

"You  must  come  again  when  there  is  more  day 
light,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  to  his  companion. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  John.  "  You  are  very  good." 
He  intended  to  relapse  into  silence,  but  his  instinct 
made  him  ashamed  of  seeming  rude.  "  You  have  a 


VII.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  99 

magnificent  library,"  he  added  presently  in  a  rather 
cold  tone. 

"  You  have  been  used  to  much  better  ones  in  Cam 
bridge,"  said  the  squire,  modestly. 

"Do  you  know  Cambridge  well,  Mr.  Juxon?" 

"Very  well.      I  am  a  Cambridge  man,  myself." 

"  Indeed  ?"  exclaimed  John,  immediately  discovering 
that  the  squire  was  not  so  bad  as  he  had  thought. 
"  Indeed !  I  had  no  idea.  Mr.  Ambrose  never  told 
me  that." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  aware  of  it,"  said  Mr. 
Juxon  quietly.  "  The  subject  never  happened  to  come 
up." 

"How  odd!"  remarked  John,  who  could  not  con 
ceive  of  associating  with  a  man  for  any  length  of  time 
without  asking  at  what  University  he  had  been. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mr.  Juxon.  "  There  are 
lots  of  other  things  to  talk  about." 

"  Oh — of  course,"  said  John,  in  a  tone  which  did 
not  express  conviction. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Ambrose  and  Mrs.  Goddard  walked 
briskly  in  front;  so  briskly  in  fact  that  Nellie  occa 
sionally  jumped  a  step,  as  children  say,  in  order  to 
keep  up  with  them. 

"  What  a  glorious  Christmas  eve !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Goddard,  as  they  turned  a  bend  in  the  drive  and 
caught  sight  of  the  western  sky  still  clear  and  red. 
"  And  there  is  the  new  moon  ! "  The  slender  crescent 
was  hanging  just  above  the  fading  glow. 

"  Oh  mamma,  have  you  wished  ?"  cried  Nellie. 
"  You  must,  you  know,  when  you  see  the  new  moon  ! " 

Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  answer,  but  she  sighed  faintly 
and  drew  a  little  closer  to  the  worthy  vicar  as  she 
walked.  She  always  wished,  whether  there  was  a  new 


100  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

moon  or  not,  and  she  always  wished  the  same  wish. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Ambrose  understood,  for  he  was  not 
without  tact.  He  changed  the  subject. 

"  How  do  you  like  our  John  Short  ? "  he  asked. 

"Very  much,  I  think,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  He  is  so  fresh  and  young." 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow.  I  was  sure  you  would  like 
him.  Is  he  at  all  like  what  you  fancied  he  would 
be?" 

"  Well  no — not  exactly.  I  know  you  told  me  how 
he  looked,  but  I  always  thought  he  would  be  rather 
Byronic — the  poetical  type,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"  He  has  a  great  deal  of  poetry  in  him,"  said  Mr. 
Ambrose  in  a  tone  of  profound  admiration.  "He 
writes  the  best  Greek  verse  I  ever  saw." 

"  Oh  yes — I  daresay,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard  smiling 
in  the  dusk.  "  I  am  sure  he  must  be  very  clever." 

So  they  chatted  quietly  as  they  walked  down  the 
park.  But  the  squire  and  John  did  not  make  progress 
in  their  conversation,  and  by  the  time  they  reached 
the  gate  they  had  yielded  to  an  awkward  silence. 
They  had  both  been  annoyed  because  Mrs.  Goddard 
had  taken  the  vicar's  arm  instead  of  choosing  one  of 
themselves,  but  the  joint  sense  of  disappointment  did 
not  constitute  a  common  bond  of  interest.  Either  one 
would  have  suffered  anything  rather  than  mention  Mrs. 
Goddard  to  the  other  in  the  course  of  the  walk.  And 
yet  Mr.  Juxon  might  have  been  John's  father.  At 
the  gate  of  the  cottage  they  separated.  The  squire 
said  he  would  turn  back.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  reached 
her  destination.  John  and  the  vicar  would  return  to 
the  vicarage.  John  tried  to  linger  a  moment,  to  get  a 
word  with  Mrs.  Goddard.  He  was  so  persistent  that 


vil.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         101 

she  let  him  follow  her  through  the  wicket  gate  and 
then  turned  quickly. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  rather  suddenly,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  say  good-bye. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  answered  John.  "  That  is — would 
you  like  to  see  one  of  those — those  little  odes  of 
mine  ? " 

"  Yes,  certainly,  if  you  like,"  she  answered  frankly, 
and  then  laughed.  "  Of  course  I  would.  Good 
night." 

He  turned  and  fled.  The  vicar  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  eyed  him  rather  curiously  as  he  came  back. 
Mr.  Juxon  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
making  Stamboul  jump  over  his  stick,  backwards  and 
forwards. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  pausing  in  his  occupation. 
The  vicar  and  John  turned  away  and  walked  home 
wards.  Before  they  turned  the  corner  towards  the 
village  John  instinctively  looked  back.  Mr.  Juxon 
was  still  making  Stamboul  jump  the  stick  before  the 
cottage,  but  as  far  as  he  could  see  in  the  dusk,  Mrs. 
Goddard  and  Nellie  had  disappeared  within.  John 
felt  that  he  was  very  unhappy. 

"  Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  began.  Then  he  stopped  and 
hesitated.  "  Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  continued  at  last,  "  you 
never  told  me  half  the  news  of  Billingsfield  in  your 
letters." 

"  You  mean  about  Mrs.  Goddard  ?  Well — no — I 
did  not  think  it  would  interest  you  very  much." 

"  She  is  a  very  interesting  person,"  said  John.  He 
could  have  added  that  if  he  had  known  she  was  in 
Billiugsfield  he  would  have  made  a  great  sacrifice  in 
order  to  come  down  for  a  day  to  make  her  acquaint 
ance.  But  he  did  not  say  it. 


104  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

for  three  years  had  been  so  familiar  to  him  and  which 
he  had  so  much  missed  in  his  solitude  at  Cambridge. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  set  to  work  and  John  followed 
their  example.  Even  the  prickly  holly  leaves  were 
pleasant  to  touch  and  there  was  a  homely  joy  in  the 
fir  branches  dripping  with  half  melted  snow. 

Before  they  had  been  at  work  very  long,  John  was 
aware  of  a  little  figure,  muffled  in  furs  and  standing 
beside  him.  He  looked  up  and  saw  little  Nellie's 
lovely  face  and  long  brown  curls. 

"  Can't  I  help  you,  Mr.  Short  ?"  she  asked  timidly. 
"  I  like  to  help,  and  they  won't  let  me." 

"  Who  are  '  they '  ?"  asked  John  kindly,  but  looking 
about  for  the  figure  of  Nellie's  mother. 

"  The  schoolmistress  and  Mrs.  Ambrose.  They  said 
I  should  dirty  my  frock." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  doubtfully,  "  I  don't  know.  Per 
haps  you  would.  But  you  might  hold  the  string  for 
me — that  won't  hurt  your  clothes,  you  know." 

"  There  are  more  greens  this  year,"  remarked  Nellie, 
sitting  down  upon  the  end  of  the  choir  bench  where 
John  was  at  work  and  taking  the  ball  of  string  in  her 
hand.  "  Mr.  Juxon  has  sent  a  lot  from  the  park." 

"  He  seems  to  be  always  sending  things,"  said  John, 
who  had  no  reason  whatever  for  saying  so,  except  that 
the  squire  had  sent  a  hamper  to  the  vicarage.  "  Did 
he  stay  long  before  dinner  ?"  he  added,  in  the  tone 
people  adopt  when  they  hope  to  make  children  talk. 

"  Stay  long  where  ?"  asked  Nellie  innocently. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  went  into  your  house  after  we 
left  you,"  answered  John. 

"  Oh  no — he  did  not  come  in,"  said  Nellie.  John 
continued  to  work  in  silence.  At  some  distance  from 
where  he  was,  Mrs.  Goddard  was  talking  to  Mrs. 


VII.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.          105 

Ambrose.  He  could  see  her  graceful  figure,  but  he 
could  hardly  distinguish  her  features  in  the  gloom  of 
the  dimly-lighted  church.  He  longed  to  leave  Nellie 
and  to  go  and  speak  to  her,  but  an  undefined  feeling 
of  hurt  pride  prevented  him.  He  would  not  forgive 
her  for  having  taken  the  vicar's  arm  in  coming  home 
through  the  park ;  so  he  stayed  where  he  was,  pricking 
his  fingers  with  the  holly  and  rather  impatiently  pull 
ing  the  string  off  the  ball  which  Nellie  held.  If  Mrs. 
Goddard  wanted  to  speak  to  him,  she  might  come  of 
her  own  accord,  he  thought,  for  he  felt  that  he  had 
behaved  foolishly  in  asking  if  she  wished  to  see  his 
odes.  Somehow,  when  he  thought  about  it,  the  odes 
did  not  seem  so  good  now  as  they  had  seemed  that 
afternoon. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  seen  him  at  first,  and  for 
some  time  she  remained  in  consultation  with  Mrs. 
Ambrose.  At  last  she  turned  and  looking  for  Nellie 
saw  that  she  was  seated  beside  John;  to  his  great 
delight  she  came  towards  him.  She  looked  more 
lovely  than  ever,  he  thought ;  the  dark  fur  about  her 
throat  set  off  her  delicate,  sad  face  like  a  frame. 

"  Oh — are  you  here,  too,  Mr.  Short  ? "  she  said. 

"  Hard  at  work,  as  you  see,"  answered  John.  "  Are 
you  going  to  help,  Mrs.  Goddard  ?  Won't  you  help 
me?" 

"  I  wanted  to,"  said  Nellie,  appealing  to  her  mother, 
"  but  they  would  not  let  me,  so  I  can  only  hold  the 
string." 

"  Well,  dear — we  will  see  if  we  can  help  Mr.  Short," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard  good-naturedly,  and  she  sat  down 
upon  the  choir  bench. 

John  never  forgot  that  delightful  Christmas  Eve. 
For  nearly  two  hours  he  never  left  Mrs.  Goddard's 


106  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  OHAP. 

side,  asking  her  advice  about  every  branch  and  bit  of 
holly  and  following  out  to  the  letter  her  most  minute 
suggestions.  He  forgot  all  about  the  squire  and  about 
the  walk  back  from  the  park,  in  the  delight  of  having 
Mrs.  Goddard  to  himself.  He  pushed  the  school 
children  about  and  spoke  roughly  to  old  Keynolds  if 
her  commands  were  not  instantly  executed ;  he  felt 
in  the  little  crowd  of  village  people  that  he  was  her 
natural  protector,  and  he  wished  he  might  never  have 
anything  in  the  world  to  do  save  to  decorate  a  church 
in  her  company.  He  grew  more  and  more  confidential 
and  when  the  work  was  all  done  he  felt  that  he  had 
thoroughly  established  himself  in  her  good  graces  and 
went  home  to  dream  of  the  happiest  day  he  had  ever 
spent.  The  organ  ceased  playing,  the  little  choir  dis 
persed,  the  school  children  were  sent  home,  Mr.  Abraham 
Boosey  retired  to  the  bar  of  the  Duke's  Head,  Muggins 
tenderly  embraced  every  tombstone  he  met  on  his  way 
through  the  churchyard,  the  "  gentlefolk "  followed 
Keynolds'  lantern  towards  the  vicarage,  and  Mr.  Thomas 
Reid,  the  conservative  and  melancholic  sexton,  put 
out  the  lights  and  locked  the  church  doors,  muttering 
a  sour  laudation  of  more  primitive  times,  when  "  the 
gentlefolk  minded  their  business." 

For  the  second  time  that  day,  John  and  Mr.  Ambrose 
walked  as  far  as  the  cottage,  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard  to 
her  home.  When  they  parted  from  her  and  Nellie, 
John  was  careful  not  to  say  anything  more  about  the 
odes,  a  subject  to  which  Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  referred 
in  the  course  of  the  evening.  John  thanked  her  rather 
effusively  for  her  help — he  could  never  have  got  through 
those  choir  benches  without  her,  he  said ;  and  the 
vicar  added  that  he  was  very  much  obliged,  too,  and 
surreptitiously  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Goddard's  hand  a 


VII.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         107 

small  package  intended  for  Miss  Nellie's  Christmas 
stocking,  from  him  and  his  wife,  and  which  he  had 
forgotten  to  give  earlier.  Nellie  was  destined  to  have 
a  fuller  stocking  than  usual  this  year,  for  the  squire 
had  remembered  her  as  well  as  Mr.  Ambrose. 

John  went  to  bed  in  his  old  room  at  the  vicarage 
protesting  that  he  had  enjoyed  the  first  day  of  his 
holiday  immensely.  As  he  blew  out  the  light,  he 
thought  suddenly  how  often  in  that  very  room  he  had 
gone  to  bed  dreaming  about  the  lady  in  black  and 
composing  verses  to  her,  till  somehow  the  Greek  ter 
minations  would  get  mixed  up  with  the  Latin  roots, 
the  quantities  all  seemed  to  change  places,  and  he 
used  to  fall  asleep  with  a  delicious  half  romantic  sense 
of  happiness  always  unfulfilled  yet  always  present. 
And  now  at  last  it  began  to  be  fulfilled  in  earnest ;  he 
had  met  the  lady  in  black  at  last,  had  spent  nearly 
half  a  day  in  her  company  and  was  more  persuaded 
than  ever  that  she  was  really  and  truly  his  ideal.  He 
did  not  go  to  sleep  so  soon  as  in  the  old  days,  and  he 
was  sorry  to  go  to  sleep  at  all ;  he  wanted  to  enjoy  all 
his  delicious  recollections  of  that  afternoon  before  he 
slept  and,  as  he  recapitulated  the  events  which  had 
befallen  him  and  recalled  each  expression  of  the  face 
that  had  charmed  him  and  every  intonation  of  the 
charmer's  voice,  he  felt  that  he  had  never  been  really 
happy  before,  that  no  amount  of  success  at  Cambridge 
could  give  him  half  the  delight  he  had  experienced 
during  one  hour  in  the  old  Billingsfield  church,  and 
that  altogether  life  anywhere  else  was  not  worth  living. 
To-morrow  he  would  see  Mrs.  Goddard  again,  and  the 
next  day  and  the  day  after  that  and  then — "  bother  the 
future ! "  ejaculated  John,  and  went  to  sleep. 

He  awoke  early,  roused  by  the  loud  clanging  of 


108  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

the  Christmas  bells,  and  looking  out  he  saw  that  the 
day  was  fine  and  cold  and  bright  as  Christmas  day 
should  be,  and  generally  is.  The  hoar  frost  was 
frozen  into  fantastic  shapes  upon  his  little  window,  the 
snow  was  clinging  to  the  yew  branches  outside  and 
the  robins  were  hopping  and  chirping  over  the  thin 
crust  of  frozen  snow  that  just  covered  the  ground. 
The  road  was  hard  and  brown  as  on  the  previous  day, 
and  the  ice  in  the  park  would  probably  bear.  Per 
haps  Mrs.  Goddard  would  skate  in  the  afternoon 
between  the  services,  but  then — Juxon  would  be  there. 
"  Never  mind  Juxon,"  quoth  John  to  himself,  "  it  is 
Christmas  day ! " 

At  the  vicarage  and  elsewhere,  all  over  the  land, 
those  things  were  done  which  delight  the  heart  of 
Englishmen  at  the  merry  season.  Everybody  shook 
hands  with  everybody  else,  everybody  cried  "  Merry 
Christmas  ! "  to  his  neighbour  in  the  street,  with  an 
intonation  as  though  he  were  saying  something  start- 
lingly  new  and  brilliant  which  had  never  been  said 
before.  Every  labourer  who  had  a  new  smock-frock 
put  it  on,  and  those  who  had  none  had  at  least  a  bit 
of  new  red  worsted  comforter  about  their  throats  and 
began  the  day  by  standing  at  their  doors  in  the  cold 
morning,  smoking  a  "  ha'p'orth  o'  shag  "  in  a  new  clay 
pipe,  greeting  each  other  across  the  village  street. 
Muggins,  who  had  spent  a  portion  of  the  night  in 
exchanging  affectionate  Christmas  wishes  with  the 
tombstones  in  the  churchyard,  appeared  fresh  and 
ruddy  at  an  early  hour,  clad  in  the  long  black  coat 
and  tall  hat  which  he  was  accustomed  to  wear  when  he 
drove  Mr.  Boosey's  fly  on  great  festivals.  Most  of  the 
cottages  in  the  single  street  sported  a  bit  of  holly  in 
their  windows,  and  altogether  the  appearance  of  Bill- 


vii.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         109 

ingsfield  was  singularly  festive  and  mirthful.  At 
precisely  ten  minutes  to  eleven  the  vicar  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  accompanied  by  John,  issued  from  the  vicar 
age  and  went  across  the  road  by  the  private  path  to 
the  church.  As  they  entered  the  porch  Mr.  Eeid,  who 
stood  solemnly  tolling  the  small  bell,  popularly  nick 
named  the  "  Ting-tang,"  and  of  which  the  single  rope 
passed  down  close  to  the  south  door,  vouchsafed  John 
a  sour  smile  of  recognition.  John  felt  as  though  he 
had  come  home. 

Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  appeared  a  moment  after 
wards  and  took  their  seats  in  the  pew  traditionally 
belonging  to  the  cottage,  behind  that  of  the  squire  who 
was  always  early,  and  the  sight  of  whose  smoothly 
brushed  hair  and  brown  beard  was  a  constant  source 
of  satisfaction  to  Mrs.  Ambrose.  John  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  aisle,  but 
John's  eyes  strayed  very  frequently  towards  Mrs. 
Goddard ;  so  frequently  indeed  that  she  noticed  it 
and  leaned  far  back  in  her  seat  to  avoid  his  glance. 
Whereupon  John  blushed  and  felt  that  the  vicar,  who 
was  reading  the  Second  Lesson,  had  probably  noticed 
his  distraction.  It  was  hard  to  realise  that  two  years 
and  a  half  had  passed  since  he  had  sat  in  that  same 
pew ;  perhaps,  however,  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Goddard 
helped  him  to  understand  the  lapse  of  time.  But  for 
her  it -would  have  been  very  hard;  for  the  vicar's 
voice  sounded  precisely  as  it  used  to  sound ;  Mrs. 
Ambrose  had  not  lost  her  habit  of  removing  one  glove 
and  putting  it  into  her  prayer  book  as  a  mark  while 
she  found  the  hymn  in  the  accompanying  volume  ;  the 
bright  decorations  looked  as  they  looked  years  ago 
above  the  organ  and  round  the  chancel ;  from  far  down 
the  church,  just  before  the  sermon,  came  the  old 


110  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

accustomed  sound  of  small  boys  shuffling  their  hob 
nailed  shoes  upon  the  stone  floor  and  the  audible 
guttural  whisper  of  the  churchwarden  admonishing 
them  to  "  mind  the  stick  ; "  the  stained-glass  windows 
admitted  the  same  pleasant  light  as  of  yore — all  was 
unchanged.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  occupied 
the  cottage  pew,  and  their  presence  alone  was  sufficient 
to  mark  to  John  the  fact  that  he  was  now  a  man. 

The  service  was  sympathetic  to  John  Short.  He 
liked  the  simplicity  of  it,  even  the  rough  singing  of  the 
choir,  as  compared  with  the  solemn  and  magnificent 
musical  services  of  Trinity  College  Chapel.  But  it 
seemed  very  long  before  it  was  all  over  and  he  was 
waiting  for  Mrs.  Goddard  outside  the  church  door. 

There  were  more  greetings,  more  "  Merry  Christ 
mas  "  and  "  Many  happy  returns."  Mrs.  Goddard 
looked  more  charming  than  ever  and  was  quite  as 
cordial  as  on  the  previous  evening. 

"  How  much  better  it  all  looked  this  morning  by 
daylight,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  it  looked  very  pretty  last  night,"  answered 
John.  "There  is  nothing  so  delightful  as  Christmas 
decorations,  is  there  ? " 

"  Perhaps  you  will  come  down  next  year  and  help 
us  again  ? "  suggested  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Yes — well,  I  might  come  at  Easter,  for  that 
matter,"  answered  the  young  man,  who  after  finding 
it  impossible  to  visit  Billingsfield  during  two  years  and 
a  half,  now  saw  no  difficulty  whatever  in  the  way  of  \ 
making  two  visits  in  the  course  of  six  months.  "  Do 
you  still  decorate  at  Easter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes — do  you  think  you  can  come  ? "  she  said 
pleasantly.  "  I  thought  you  were  to  be  very  busy 
just  then." 


vii.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  Ill 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,"  answered  John.  "  But  of 
course  I  could  come,  you  know,  if  it  were  necessary." 

"Hardly  exactly  necessary — "  Mrs.  Goddard 
laughed. 

"  The  doctor  told  me  some  relaxation  was  absolutely 
indispensable  for  my  health,"  said  John  rather  senten- 
tiously. 

"  You  don't  really  look  very  ill — are  you  ? "  She 
seemed  incredulous. 

"  Oh  no,  of  course  not — only  a  little  overworked 
sometimes." 

"  In  that  case  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  do  you 
good,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  "  asked  John,  hopefully. 

"  Oh — that  is  a  matter  for  your  doctor  to  decide. 
I  cannot  possibly  tell,"  she  answered. 

"  I  think  you  would  make  a  very  good  doctor,  Mrs. 
Goddard,"  said  John  venturing  on  a  bolder  flight. 

"  Eeally — I  never  thought  of  trying  it,"  she  replied 
with  a  little  laugh.  "  Good  morning  Mr.  Ambrose. 
Nellie  wants  to  thank  you  for  your  beautiful  present. 
It  was  really  too  good  of  you." 

The  vicar  came  out  of  the  vestry  and  joined  the 
group  in  the  path.  Mrs.  Ambrose  who  had  been 
asking  Tom  Judd's  wife  about  her  baby,  also  came  up, 
and  the  squire,  who  had  been  presenting  Mr.  Eeid  with 
ten  shillings  for  his  Christmas  box  and  who  looked 
singularly  bereaved  without  the  faithful  Stamboul  at 
his  heels,  sauntered  up  and  began  congratulating 
everybody.  In  the  distance  the  last  of  the  congrega 
tion,  chiefly  the  old  women  and  cripples  who  could  not 
keep  up  with  the  rest,  hobbled  away  through  the  white 
gate  of  the  churchyard. 

It  had  been  previously  agreed  that  if  the  ice  would 


112  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

bear  there  should  be  skating  in  the  afternoon  and  the 
squire  was  anxious  to  inform  the  party  that  the  pond 
was  in  excellent  condition. 

"  As  black  as  your  hat,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Stam- 
boul  and  I  have  been  sliding  all  over  it,  so  of  course 
it  would  bear  an  ox.  It  did  not  crack  anywhere." 

"Do  you  skate,  Mrs.  Goddard  ?"  asked  John. 

"  Not  very  well  —  not  nearly  so  well  as  Nellie. 
But  I  am  very  fond  of  it." 

"Will  you  let  me  push  you  about  in  a  chair, 
then  ?  It  is  capital  fun." 

"  Very  good  fun  for  me,  no  doubt,"  answered  Mrs. 
Goddard,  laughing. 

"  I  would  rather  do  it  than  anything  else,"  said 
John  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "  It  is  splendid  exer 
cise,  pushing  people  about  in  chairs." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  the  squire,  heartily  "  We  will 
take  turns,  Mr.  Short."  The  suggestion  did  not  meet 
with  any  enthusiastic  response  from  John,  who  wished 
Mr.  Juxon  were  not  able  to  skate. 

Poor  John,  he  had  but  one  idea,  which  consisted 
simply  in  getting  Mrs.  Goddard  to  himself  as  often 
and  as  long  as  possible.  Unfortunately  this  idea  did 
not  coincide  with  Mr.  Juxon's  views.  Mr.  Juxon  was 
an  older,  slower  and  calmer  man  than  the  enthusi 
astic  young  scholar,  and  though  very  far  from  obtrud 
ing  his  views  .or  making  any  assertion  of  his  rights, 
was  equally  far  from  forgetting  them.  He  was  a 
man  more  of  actions  than  words.  He  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  monopolising  Mrs.  Goddard's  society  for 
months  and  he  had  no  intention  of  relinquishing  his 
claims,  even  for  the  charitable  purpose  of  allowing  a 
poor  student  to  enjoy  his  Christmas  holiday  and  bit 
of  romance  undisturbed.  If  John  had  presented 


VII.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          113 

himself  as  a  boy,  it  might  have  been  different ;  but 
John  emphatically  considered  himself  a  man,  and  the 
squire  was  quite  willing  to  treat  him  as  such,  since 
he  desired  it.  That  is  to  say  he  would  not  permit 
him  to  "  cut  him  out "  as  he  would  have  expressed  it. 
The  result  of  the  position  in  which  John  and  Mr. 
Juxon  soon  found  themselves  was  to  be  expected. 


114  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE    VIII. 

JOHN  did  not  sleep  so  peacefully  nor  dream  so  happily 
that  night  as  on  the  night  before.  The  course  of 
true  love  had  not  run  smooth  that  afternoon.  The 
squire  had  insisted  upon  having  his  share  of  the  lovely 
Mrs.  Goddard's  society  and  she  herself  had  not  seemed 
greatly  disturbed  at  a  temporary  separation  from  John. 
The  latter  amused  her  for  a  little  while ;  the  former 
held  the  position  of  a  friend  whose  conversation  she 
liked  better  than  that  of  other  people.  John  was  disap 
pointed  and  thought  of  going  back  to  Cambridge  the 
next  day.  So  strong,  indeed  was  his  sudden  desire 
to  leave  Billingsfield  without  finishing  his  visit,  that 
before  going  to  bed  he  had  packed  some  of  his  be 
longings  into  his  small  portmanteau ;  the  tears  almost 
stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  busied  himself  about  his  room 
and  he  muttered  certain  formulae  of  self-accusation  as 
he  collected  his  things,  saying  over  and  over  in  his  heart 
— "  What  a  fool  I  am !  Why  should  she  care  for 
me  ?  What  am  I  that  she  should  care  for  me  ? "  etc. 
etc.  Then  he  opened  his  window  and  looked  at  the 
bright  stars  which  shone  out  over  the  old  yew  tree ; 
but  it  was  exceedingly  cold,  and  so  he  shut  it  again 
and  went  to  bed,  feeling  very  uncomfortable  and 
unhappy. 

But  when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  looked  at 


vin.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         115 

his  half-packed  portmanteau  and  laughed,  and  instead 
of  saying  "  What  a  fool  I  am !"  he  said  "  What  a 
fool  I  was  !" — which  is  generally  and  in  most  conditions 
of  human  affairs  a  much  wiser  thing  to  say.  Then  he 
carefully  took  everything  out  of  the  portmanteau 
again  and  replaced  things  as  they  had  lain  before  in 
his  room,  lest  perchance  Susan,  the  housemaid,  should 
detect  what  had  passed  through  his  mind  on  the  pre 
vious  evening  and  should  tell  Mrs.  Ambrose.  And  from 
all  this  it  appears  that  John  was  exceedingly  young, 
as  indeed  he  was,  in  spite  of  his  being  nearly  one  and 
twenty  years  of  age.  But  doubtless  if  men  were 
willing  to  confess  their  disappointments  and  foolish, 
impetuous  resolutions,  many  would  be  found  who 
have  done  likewise,  being  in  years  much  older  than 
John  Short.  Unfortunately  for  human  nature  most 
men  would  rather  confess  to  positive  wrong-doing  than 
to  any  such  youthful  follies  as  these,  while  they  are 
young ;  and  when  they  are  old  they  would  rather  be 
thought  young  and  foolish  than  confess  the  evil  deeds 
they  have  actually  done. 

John,  however,  did  not  moralise  upon  his  situation. 
The  weather  was  again  fine  and  as  he  dressed  his 
spirits  rose.  He  became  magnanimous  and  resolved 
to  forget  yesterday  and  make  the  most  of  to-day. 
He  would  see  Mrs.  Goddard  of  course ;  perhaps  he 
would  show  her  a  little  coldness  at  first,  giving  her 
to  understand  that  she  had  not  treated  him  well  on 
the  previous  afternoon ;  then  he  would  interest  her 
by  his  talk — he  would  repeat  to  her  one  of  those 
unlucky  odes  and  translate  it  for  her  benefit,  making 
use  of  the  freedom  he  would  thus  get  in  order  to 
make  her  an  unlimited  number  of  graceful  compli 
ments.  Perhaps,  too,  he  ought  to  pay  more  attention 


116  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

to  Nellie,  if  he  wished  to  conciliate  her  mother. 
Women,  he  reflected,  have  such  strange  prejudices  ! 

He  wondered  whether  it  would  be  proper  for  him 
to  call  upon  Mrs.  Goddard.  He  was  not  quite  sure 
about  it,  and  he  was  rather  ashamed  of  having  so 
little  knowledge  of  the  world ;  but  he  believed  that 
in  Billingsfield  he  might  run  the  risk.  There  had 
been  talk  of  skating  again  that  morning,  and  so,  about 
ten  o'clock,  John  told  Mr.  Ambrose  he  would  go  for 
a  short  walk  and  then  join  them  all  at  the  pond  in 
the  park.  The  project  seemed  good,  and  he  put  it 
into  execution.  As  he  walked  up  the  frozen  road,  he 
industriously  repeated  in  his  mind  the  Greek  verses 
he  was  going  to  translate  to  Mrs.  Goddard ;  he  had 
no  copy  of  them  but  his  memory  was  very  good. 
He  met  half  a  dozen  labourers,  strolling  about  with 
their  pipes  until  it  was  time  to  go  and  have  a  pint  of 
beer,  as  is  their  manner  upon  holidays ;  they  touched 
their  hats  to  him,  remembering  his  face  well,  and  he 
smiled  happily  at  the  rough  fellows,  contrasting  his 
situation  with  theirs,  who  from  the  misfortune  of 
social  prejudice  were  not  permitted  to  go  and  call 
upon  Mrs.  Goddard.  His  heart  beat  rather  fast  as  he 
went  up  to  the  door  of  the  cottage,  and  for  one  un 
pleasant  moment  he  again  doubted  whether  it  was 
proper  for  him  to  make  such  an  early  visit.  But 
being  bent  on  romantic  adventure  he  rang  boldly  and 
inquired  for  Mrs.  Goddard. 

She  was  surprised  to  see  John  at  that  hour  and  alone  ; 
but  it  did  not  enter  her  head  to  refuse  him  admit 
tance.  Indeed  as  he  stood  in  the  little  passage  he  heard 
the  words  which  passed  between  her  and  Martha. 

"What  is  it,  Martha?" 

"  It's   a   young    gentleman  mam.      I  rather  think, 


VIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  117 

mam,  it's  the  young  gentleman  that's  stopping  at  the 
vicarage." 

"  Oh — ask  him  to  come  in." 

"  In  'ere  mam  ?" 

"  No — into  the  sitting-room,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard, 
who  was  busy  in  the  dining-room. 

John  was  accordingly  ushered  in  and  told  to  wait 
a  minute ;  which  he  did,  surveying  with  surprise  the 
beautiful  pictures,  the  rich  looking  furniture  and  the 
valuable  objects  that  lay  about  upon  the  tables.  He 
experienced  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  for  he  felt  sure  that 
Mrs.  Goddard  possessed  another  qualification  which  he 
had  unconsciously  attributed  to  her — that  of  being 
accustomed  to  a  certain  kind  of  luxury,  which  in 
John's  mind  was  mysteriously  connected  with  his 
romance.  It  is  one  of  the  most  undefinable  of  the 
many  indefinite  feelings  to  which  young  men  in  love 
are  subject,  especially  young  men  who  have  been,  or 
are,  very  poor.  They  like  to  connect  ideas  of  wealth 
and  comfort,  even  of  a  luxurious  existence,  with  the 
object  of  their  affections.  They  desire  the  world  of 
love  to  be  new  to  them,  and  in  order  to  be  wholly 
new  in  their  experience,  it  must  be  rich.  The  feel 
ing  is  not  so  wholly  unworthy  as  it  might  seem  ; 
they  instinctively  place  their  love  upon  a  pedestal 
and  require  its  surroundings  to  be  of  a  better  kind 
than  such  as  they  have  been  accustomed  to  in  their 
own  lives.  King  Cophetua,  being  a  king,  could  afford 
to  love  the  beggar  maid,  and  a  very  old  song  sings  of 
a  "  lady  who  loved  a  swine,"  but  the  names  of  the 
poor  young  men  who  have  loved  above  their  fortune 
and  station  are  innumerable  as  the  swallows  in 
spring.  John  saw  that  Mrs.  Goddard  was  much 
richer  than  he  had  ever  been,  and  without  the  smallest 


118  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

second  thought  was  pleased.  In  a  few  moments  she 
entered  the  room.  John  had  his  speech  ready. 

"I  thought,  if  you  were  going  to  skate,  I  would 
call  and  ask  leave  to  go  with  you,"  he  said  glibly,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Oh — thanks.     But  is  not  it  rather  early  ? " 

"  It  is  twenty  minutes  past  ten,"  said  John  looking 
at  the  clock. 

"  Well,  let  us  get  warm  before  starting,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard,  sitting  down  by  the  fire.  "  It  is  so  cold  this 
morning." 

John  thought  she  was  lovely  to  look  at  as  she  sat 
there,  warming  her  hands  and  shielding  her  face  from 
the  flame  with  them  at  the  same  time.  She  looked 
at  him  and  smiled  pleasantly,  but  said  nothing.  She 
was  still  a  little  surprised  to  see  him  and  wondered 
whether  he  himself  had  anything  to  say. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "it  is  very  cold — traditional  Christ 
mas  weather.  Could  not  be  finer,  in  fact,  could  it  ?  " 

"  No — it  could  not  be  finer,"  echoed  Mrs.  Goddard, 
suppressing  a  smile.  Then  as  though  to  help  him  out 
of  his  embarrassment  by  giving  an  impulse  to  the 
conversation,  she  added,  "  By  the  bye,  Mr.  Short,  while 
we  are  warming  ourselves  why  do  not  you  let  me  hear 
one  of  your  odes  ? " 

She  meant  it  kindly,  thinking  it  would  give  him 
pleasure,  as  indeed  it  did.  John's  heart  leaped  and 
he  blushed  all  over  his  face  with  delight.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  not  quite  sure  whether  she  had  done 
right,  but  she  attributed  his  evident  satisfaction  to  his 
vanity  as  a  scholar. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said  with  alacrity,  "  if  you  would 
like  to  hear  it.  Would  you  care  to  hear  me  repeat 
the  Greek  first?" 


VIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  119 

"  Oh,  of  all  things.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever 
heard  Greek." 

John  cleared  his  throat  and  began,  glancing  at  his 
hostess  rather  nervously  from  time  to  time.  But  his 
memory  never  failed  him,  and  he  went  on  to  the  end 
without  a  break  or  hesitation. 

"  How  do  you  think  it  sounds  ?"  he  asked  timidly 
when  he  had  finished. 

"  It  sounds  very  funny,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  I 
had  no  idea  Greek  sounded  like  that — but  it  has  a 
pleasant  rhythm." 

"  That  is  the  thing,"  said  John,  enthusiastically.  "  I 
see  you  really  appreciate  it.  Of  course  nobody  knows 
how  the  ancients  pronounced  Greek,  and  if  one  pro 
nounced  it  as  the  moderns  do,  it  would  sound  all 
wrong — but  the  rhythm  is  the  thing,  you  know.  It 
is  impossible  to  get  over  that." 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  not  positively  sure  what  he  meant 
by  "  getting  over  the  rhythm ;"  possibly  John  himself 
could  not  have  defined  his  meaning  very  clearly.  But 
his  cheeks  glowed  and  he  was  very  much  pleased. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  confidently. 
"  But  what  does  it  all  mean,  Mr.  Short?" 

"  Would  you  really  like  to  know  ? "  asked  John  in 
fresh  embarrassment.  He  suddenly  realised  how 
wonderfully  delightful  it  was  to  be  repeating  his  own 
poetry  to  the  woman  for  whom  it  was  written. 

"  Indeed  yes — what  is  the  use  of  your  telling  me 
all  sorts  of  things  in  Greek,  if  you  do  not  tell  me 
what  they  mean  ? " 

"  Yes — you  will  promise  not  to  be  offended  ? " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard ;  then  blushing  a 
little  she  added,  "  it  is  quite — I  mean — quite  the  sort 
of  thing,  is  not  it  ? " 


120  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"Oh  quite,"  said  John,  blushing  too,  but  looking 
grave  for  a  moment.  Then  he  repeated  the  English 
translation  of  the  verses  which,  as  they  were  certainly 
not  so  good  as  the  original,  may  be  omitted  here. 
They  set  forth  that  in  the  vault  of  the  world's  night  a 
new  star  had  appeared  which  men  had  not  yet  named, 
nor  would  be  likely  to  name  until  the  power  of  human 
speech  should  be  considerably  increased,  and  the  verses 
dwelt  upon  the  theme,  turning  it  and  revolving  it  in 
several  ways,  finally  declaring  that  the  far-darting  sun 
must  look  out  for  his  interests  unless  he  meant  to  be 
outshone  by  the  new  star.  Translated  into  English 
there  was  nothing  very  remarkable  about  the  perform 
ance  though  the  original  Greek  ode  was  undoubtedly 
very  good  of  its  kind.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  was  deter 
mined  to  be  pleased. 

"  I  think  it  is  charming,"  she  said,  when  John  had 
reached  the  end  and  paused  for  her  criticism. 

"  The  Greek  is  very  much  better,"  said  John  doubt 
fully.  "  I  cannot  write  English  verses — they  seem  to 
me  so  much  harder." 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  But  did  you 
really  write  that  when — "  she  stopped  not  knowing 
exactly  how  to  express  herself.  But  John  had  his 
answer  ready. 

"  Oh,  I  wrote  ever  so  many,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have 
got  them  all  at  Cambridge.  But  that  is  the  only  one 
I  quite  remember.  I  wrote  them  just  after  the  day 
when  I  waked  up  Muggins — the  only  time  I  had  seen 
you  till  now.  I  think  I  could " 

"  How  funny  it  seems,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  without 
knowing  a  person,  to  write  verses  to  them !  How  did 
you  manage  to  do  it?" 

"  I  was  going   to   say   that  I  think — I  am  quite 


vin.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          121 

sure  —  I  could  write  much  better  things  to  you 
now." 

"  Oh,  that  is  impossible — quite  absurd,  Mr.  Short," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard,  laughing  more  gaily  than  usual. 

"  Why  ? "  asked  John,  somewhat  emboldened  by 
his  success.  "  I  do  not  see  why,  if  one  has  an  ideal, 
you  know,  one  should  not  understand  it  much  better 
when  one  comes  near  to  it." 

"Yes — but — how  can  I  possibly  be  your  ideal?" 
She  felt  herself  so  much  older  than  John  that  she 
thought  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  be  annoyed ;  so 
she  treated  him  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  and  was 
really  amused  at  his  talk. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  answered  John  stoutly. 
"  You  might  be  any  man's  ideal." 

"  Oh,  really — "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Goddard,  somewhat 
startled  at  the  force  of  the  sweeping  compliment. 
To  be  told  point-blank,  even  by  an  enthusiastic  youth 
of  one  and  twenty,  that  one  is  the  ideal  woman,  must 
be  either  very  pleasant  or  very  startling. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said  quickly,  before  he  could 
answer  her,  "  you  know  of  course  I  am  very  ignorant 
— yes  I  am — but  will  you  please  tell  me  what  is  an 
'ideal'?" 

"Why — yes,"  said  John,  "it  is  very  easy.  Ideal 
comes  from  idea,  Plato  meant,  by  the  idea,  the 
perfect  model — well,  do  you  see  ? " 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  It  is  very  simple.  When  I,  when  anybody,  says 
you  are  the  ideal  woman,  it  is  meant  that  you  are  the 
perfect  model,  the  archetype  of  a  woman." 

"Yes — but  that  is  absurd,"  said  his  companion 
rather  coldly. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  it  should  seem  absurd,"  said  John 


122  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

in  a  persuasive  tone ;  "  it  seems  very  natural  to  me. 
A  man  thinks  for  a  long  time  about  everything  that 
most  attracts  him  and  then,  on  a  sudden,  he  sees  it 
all  before  him,  quite  real  and  alive,  and  then  he  says 
he  has  realised  his  ideal.  But  you  liked  the  verses, 
Mrs.  Goddard  ? "  he  added  quickly,  hoping  to  bring 
back  the  smile  that  had  vanished  from  her  face.  He 
had  a  strong  impression  that  he  had  been  a  little  too 
familiar.  Probably  Mrs.  Goddard  thought  so  too. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  think  they  are  very  nice,"  she  answered. 
But  the  smile  did  not  come  back.  She  was  not  dis 
pleased,  but  she  was  not  pleased  either;  she  was 
wondering  how  far  this  boy  would  go  if  she  would 
let  him.  John,  however,  felt  unpleasantly  doubtful 
about  what  he  had  done. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  displeased,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  not  in  the  least,"  said  she.  "  Shall  we  go  to 
the  park  and  skate  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  will  skate  to-day,"  said  John, 
foolishly.  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him  in  unfeigned 
surprise. 

"  Why  not  ?     I  thought  it  was  for  that " 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  John  quickly.  "Only  it  is 
not  very  amusing  to  skate  when  Mr.  Juxon  is  pushing 
you  about  in  a  chair." 

"  Eeally — why  should  not  he  push  me  about,  if  I 
like  it?" 

"  If  you  like  it — that  is  different,"  answered  John 
impatiently. 

Mrs.  Goddard  began  to  think  that  John  was  very  like 
a  spoiled  child,  and  she  resented  his  evident  wish  to 
monopolise  her  society.  She  left  the  room  to  get  ready 
for  the  walk,  vaguely  wishing  that  he  had  not  come. 

"  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself  again,"  said  John  to 


vin.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.         123 

himself,  when  he  was  left  alone ;  and  he  suddenly 
wished  he  could  get  out  of  the  house  without  seeing 
her  again.  But  before  he  had  done  wishing,  she 
returned. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Nellie  ? "  he  asked  gloomily,  as  they 
walked  down  the  path.  "  I  hope  she  is  coming  too." 

"  She  went  up  to  the  pond  with  Mr.  Juxon,  just 
before  you  came. 

"  Do  you  let  her  go  about  like  that,  without  you  ? " 
asked  John  severely. 

"Why  not?  Eeally,  Mr.  Short,"  said  Mrs.  God- 
dard,  glancing  up  at  his  face,  "  either  you  dislike  Mr. 
Juxon  very  much,  or  else  I  think  you  take  a  good 
deal  upon  yourself  in  remarking — in  this  way " 

She  was  naturally  a  little  timid,  but  John's  youth 
and  what  she  considered  as  his  extraordinary  pre 
sumption  inspired  her  with  courage  to  protest.  The 
effect  upon  John  was  instantaneous. 

"  Pray  forgive  me,"  he  said  humbly,  "  I  am  very 
silly.  I  daresay  you  are  quite  right  and  I  do  not 
like  Mr.  Juxon.  Not  that  I  have  the  smallest  reason 
for  not  liking  him,"  he  continued  quickly,  "  it  is  a 
mere  personal  antipathy,  a  mere  idea,  I  daresay — 
very  foolish  of  me." 

"  It  is  very  foolish  to  take  unreasonable  dislikes  to 
people  one  knows  nothing  about,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  Will  you  please  open  the  gate  ? "  They  were 
standing  before  the  bars,  but  John  was  so  much  dis 
turbed  in  mind  that  he  stood  still,  quite  forgetting  to 
raise  the  long  iron  latch. 

"  Dear  me — I  beg  your  pardon — I  cannot  imagine 
what  I  was  thinking  of,"  he  said  making  the  most 
idiotic  excuse  current  in  English  idiom. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  with  a  little  laugh,  as 


124  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

he  held  the  gate  back  for  her  to  pass.  It  was  a  plain 
white  gate  with  stone  pillars,  and  there  was  no  gate 
house.  People  who  came  to  the  Hall  were  expected 
to  open  it  for  themselves.  Mrs.  Goddard  was  so 
much  amused  at  John's  absence  of  mind  that  her 
good  humour  returned,  and  he  felt  that  since  that 
object  was  attained  he  no  longer  regretted  his  folly  in 
the  least.  The  cloud  that  had  darkened  the  horizon 
of  his  romance  had  passed  quickly  away,  and  once 
more  he  said  inwardly  that  he  was  enjoying  the 
happiest  days  of  his  life.  If  for  a  moment  the  image 
of  Mr.  Juxon  entered  the  field  of  his  imaginative 
vision  in  the  act  of  pushing  Mrs.  Goddard's  chair  upon 
the  ice,  he  mentally  ejaculated  "  bother  the  squire !" 
as  he  had  done  upon  the  previous  night,  and  soon  forgot 
all  about  him.  The  way  through  the  park  was  long, 
the  morning  was  delightful  and  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not 
seem  to  be  in  a  hurry. 

"  I  wish  the  winter  would  last  for  ever,"  he  said 
presently. 

"  So  do  I,"  answered  his  companion,  "  it  is  the 
pleasantest  time  of  the  year.  One  does  not  feel  that 
nature  is  dead  because  one  is  sure  she  will  very  soon 
be  alive  again." 

"  That  is  a  charming  idea,"  said  John,  "  one  might 
make  a  good  subject  of  it." 

"  It  is  a  little  old,  perhaps.  I  think  I  have  heard 
it  before — have  not  you  ? " 

"All  good  ideas  are  old.  The  older  the  better," 
said  John  confidently.  Mrs.  Goddard  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  teazing  him  a  little.  They  had 
grown  very  intimate  in  forty-eight  hours  ;  it  had  taken 
six  months  for  Mr.  Juxon  to  reach  the  point  John  had 
won  in  two  days. 


vnr.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  125 

"  Are  they  ? "  she  asked  quietly.  "  Is  that  the 
reason  you  selected  me  for  the  '  idea '  of  your  ode, 
which  you  explained  to  me  ? " 

"  You  ?"  said  John  in  astonishment.  Then  he 
laughed.  "  Why,  you  are  not  any  older  than  I  am  !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  she  inquired  with  a  demure 
smile.  "  I  am  very  much  older  than  you  think." 

"  You  must  be — I  mean,  you  know,  you  must  be 
older  than  you  look." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  still  smiling,  and 
just  resting  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  his  arm  as 
she  stepped  across  a  slippery  place  in  the  frozen  road. 
"  Yes,  I  am  a  great  deal  older  than  you." 

John  would  have  liked  very  much  to  ask  her  age, 
but  even  to  his  youthful  and  unsophisticated  mind  such 
a  question  seemed  almost  too  personal.  He  did  not 
really  believe  that  she  was  more  than  five  years  older 
than  he,  and  that  seemed  to  be  no  difference  at  all. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  I  am  nearly  one  and 
twenty." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  had  heard 
every  detail  concerning  John  from  Mr.  Ambrose,  again 
and  again.  "Just  think,"  she  added  with  a  laugh, 
"  only  one  and  twenty !  Why  when  I  was  one  and 
twenty  I  was — "  she  stopped  short. 

"  What  were  you  doing  then  ? "  asked  John,  trying 
not  to  seem  too  curious. 

"  I  was  living  in  London,"  she  said  quietly.  She 
half  enjoyed  his  disappointment. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  daresay.  But  what — well,  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  to  ask  any  questions." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  she.  "  It  is  very  rude  to  ask 
a  lady  questions  about  her  age." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  rude  again,"  said  John,  pre- 


126  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

tending  to  laugh.  "  Have  you  always  been  fond  of 
skating  ? "  he  asked,  fixing  his  eye  upon  a  distant 
tree,  and  trying  to  look  unconscious. 

"  No — I  only  learned  since  I  came  here.  Besides, 
I  skate  very  badly." 

"  Did  Mr.  Juxon  teach  you  ? "  asked  John,  still 
gazing  into  the  distance.  From  not  looking  at  the 
path  he  slipped  on  a  frozen  puddle  and  nearly  fell. 
Whereat,  as  usual,  when  he  did  anything  awkward,  he 
blushed  to  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

"Take  care,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  calmly.  "You 
will  fall  if  you  don't  look  where  you  are  going.  No  ; 
Mr.  Juxon  was  not  here  last  year.  He  only  came 
here  in  the  summer." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  always  been  here," 
said  John,  trying  to  recover  his  equanimity.  "  Then 
I  suppose  Mr.  Ambrose  taught  you  to  skate  ? " 

"  Exactly — Mr.  Ambrose  taught  me.  He  skates 
very  well." 

"  So  will  you,  with  a  little  more  practice,"  answered 
her  companion  in  a  rather  patronising  tone.  He  in 
tended  perhaps  to  convey  the  idea  that  Mrs.  Goddard 
would  improve  in  the  exercise  if  she  would  actually 
skate,  and  with  him,  instead  of  submitting  to  be 
pushed  about  in  a  chair  by  Mr.  Juxon. 

"Oh, I  daresay,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  indifferently.  "We 
shall  soon  be  there,  now.  I  can  hear  them  on  the  ice." 

"  Too  soon,"  said  John  with  regret. 

"  I  thought  you  liked  skating  so  much." 

"  I  like  walking  with  you  much  better,"  he  replied, 
and  he  glanced  at  her  face  to  see  if  his  speech  pro 
duced  any  sign  of  sympathy. 

"You  have  walked  with  me;  now  you  can  skate 
with  Nellie,"  suggested  Mrs.  Goddard. 


vni.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  127 

"  You  talk  as  though  I  were  a  child,"  said  John, 
suddenly  losing  his  temper  in  a  very  unaccountable 
way. 

"  Because  I  said  you  might  skate  with  Nellie  ? 
Eeally,  I  don't  see  why.  Mr.  Juxon  is  not  a  child, 
and  he  has  been  skating  with  her  all  the  morning." 

"  That  is  different,"  retorted  John  growing  very  red. 

"  Yes — Nellie  is  much  nearer  to  your  age  than  to 
Mr.  Juxon's,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  with  a  calmness 
which  made  John  desperate. 

"  Eeally,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said  stiffly,  "  I  cannot 
see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it." 

"  '  The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a  young  man,  which 
the  lady  so  much  older  than  myself  has  charged — ' 
How  does  the  quotation  end,  Mr.  Short  ?  " 

" '  Has,  with  such  spirit  and  decency,  charged  upon 
me,  I  shall  neither  attempt  to  palliate  nor  deny,' "  said 
John  savagely.  "  Quite  so,  Mrs.  Goddard.  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  palliate  it,  nor  will  I  venture  to  deny  it." 

"Then  why  in  the  world  are  you  so  angry  with 
me  ?  "  she  asked,  suddenly  turning  her  violet  eyes  upon 
him.  "  I  was  only  laughing,  you  know." 

"  Only  laughing  !  "  repeated  John.  "  It  is  more 
pleasant  to  laugh  than  to  be  laughed  at." 

"  Yes — would  not  you  allow  me  the  pleasure  then, 
just  for  once  ? " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it.  You  are  so  extremely 
merry 

"  Come,  Mr.  Short,  we  must  not  seem  to  have  been 
quarrelling  when  we  reach  the  pond.  It  would  be  too 
ridiculous." 

"  Everything  seems  to  strike  you  in  a  humorous 
light  to-day,"  answered  John,  beginning  to  be  pacified 
by  her  tone. 


128  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  are  much  more  interesting 
when  you  are  angry,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  And  you  only  made  me  angry  in  order  to  see 
whether  I  was  interesting  ?  " 

"  Perhaps — but  then,  I  could  not  help  it  in  the 
least." 

"  I  trust  you  are  thoroughly  satisfied  upon  the  point, 
Mrs.  Goddard  ?  If  there  is  anything  more  that  I  can 
do  to  facilitate  your  researches  in  psychology " 

"  You  would  help  me  ?  Even  to  the  extent  of 
being  angry  again  ? "  She  smiled  so  pleasantly  and 
frankly  that  John's  wrath  vanished. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  be  angry  with  you.  I  am  very 
sorry  if  I  seemed  to  be,"  he  answered.  "  A  man  who 
has  the  good  fortune  to  be  thrown  into  your  society  is 
a  fool  to  waste  his  time  in  being  disagreeable." 

"  I  agree  with  the  conclusion,  at  all  events — that  is, 
it  is  much  better  to  be  agreeable.  Is  it  not  ?  Let  us 
be  friends." 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,"  said  John. 

They  walked  on  for  some  minutes  in  silence.  John 
reflected  that  he  had  witnessed  a  phase  of  Mrs.  God- 
dard's  character  of  which  he  had  been  very  far  from 
suspecting  the  existence.  He  had  not  hitherto  im 
agined  her  to  be  a  woman  of  quick  temper  or  sharp 
speech.  His  idea  of  her  was  formed  chiefly  upon  her 
appearance.  Her  sad  face,  with  its  pathetic  expres 
sion,  suggested  a  melancholy  humour  delighting  in 
subdued  and  tranquil  thoughts,  inclined  naturally  to 
the  romantic  view,  or  to  what  in  the  eyes  of  youths 
of  twenty  appears  to  be  the  romantic  view  of  life. 
He  had  suddenly  found  her  answering  him  with  a 
sharpness  which,  while  it  roused  his  wits,  startled  his 
sensibilities.  But  he  was  flattered  as  well.  His 


Viil.  A  TALE  OF  A  LOtfELY  PARISH.  129 

instinct  and  his  observation  of  Mrs.  Goddard  when  in 
the  society  of  others  led  him  to  believe  that  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  or  even  with  Mr.  Juxon,  she  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  talking  as  she  talked  with  him. 
He  was  therefore  inwardly  pleased,  so  soon  as  his 
passing  annoyance  had  subsided,  to  feel  that  she  made 
a  difference  between  him  and  others. 

It  was  quite  true  that  she  made  a  distinction, 
though  she  did  so  almost  unconsciously.  It  was  per 
fectly  natural,  too.  She  was  young  in  heart,  in  spite 
of  her  thirty  years  and  her  troubles ;  she  had  an 
elastic  temperament;  to  a  physiognomist  her  face 
would  have  shown  a  delicate  sensitiveness  to  impres 
sions  rather  than  any  inborn  tendency  to  sadness. 
In  spite  of  everything  she  was  still  young,  and  for  two 
years  and  a  half  she  had  been  in  the  society  of  persons 
much  older  than  herself,  persons  she  respected  and  re 
garded  as  friends,  but  persons  in  whom  her  youth 
found  no  sympathy.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that 
when  time  to  some  extent  had  healed  the  wound  she 
had  suffered  and  she  suddenly  found  herself  in  the 
society  of  a  young  and  enthusiastic  man,  something  of 
the  enforced  soberness  of  her  manner  should  unbend, 
showing  her  character  in  a  new  light.  She  herself 
enjoyed  the  change,  hardly  knowing  why ;  she  enjoyed 
a  little  passage  of  arms  with  John,  and  it  amused  her 
more  than  she  could  have  expected  to  be  young  again, 
to  annoy  him,  to  break  the  peace  and  heal  it  again  in 
five  minutes.  But  what  happened  entirely  failed  to 
amuse  the  squire,  who  did  not  regard  such  diversions 
as  harmless ;  and  moreover  she  was  far  from  expecting 
the  effect  which  her  treatment  of  John  Short  produced 
upon  his  scholarly  but  enthusiastic  temper. 


130         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 


CHAPTEK   IX. 

THE  squire  had  remarked  that  John  Short  seemed  to 
have  a  peculiar  temper,  and  Mrs.  Goddard  had  observed 
the  same  thing.  What  has  gone  before  sufficiently  ex 
plains  the  change  in  John's  manner,  and  the  difference 
in  his  behaviour  was  plainly  apparent  even  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  The  vicar  indeed  was  wise  enough  to 
see  that  John  was  very  much  attracted  by  Mrs.  God 
dard,  but  he  was  also  wise  enough  to  say  nothing 
about  it.  His  wife,  however,  who  had  witnessed  no 
love-making  for  nearly  thirty  years,  except  the  court 
ship  of  the  young  physician  who  had  married  her 
daughter,  attributed  John's  demeanour  to  no  such  dis 
turbing  cause.  He  was  overworked,  she  said ;  he  was 
therefore  irritable ;  he  had  of  course  never  taken  that 
excellent  homoeopathic  remedy,  highly  diluted  aconite, 
since  he  had  left  the  vicarage ;  the  consequence  was 
that  he  was  subject  to  nervous  headache — she  only 
hoped  he  would  not  be  taken  ill  on  the  eve  of  the  ex 
amination  for  honours.  She  hoped,  too,  that  he  would 
prolong  his  holiday  to  the  very  last  moment,  for  the 
country  air  and  the  rest  he  enjoyed  were  sure  to  do 
him  so  much  good.  With  regard  to  the  extension  of 
John's  visit,  the  vicar  thought  differently,  although  he 
held  his  peace.  There  were  many  reasons  why  John 
should  not  become  attached  to  Mrs.  Goddard  both  for 


IX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          131 

her  sake  and  his  own,  and  if  he  staid  long,  the  vicar 
felt  quite  sure  that  he  would  fall  in  love  with  her. 
She  was  dangerously  pretty,  she  was  much  older  than 
John — which  in  the  case  of  very  young  men  consti 
tutes  an  additional  probability — she  evidently  took  an 
innocent  pleasure  in  his  society,  and  altogether  such  a 
complication  as  was  likely  to  ensue  was  highly  unde 
sirable.  Therefore,  when  Mrs.  Ambrose  pressed  John 
to  stay  longer  than  he  had  intended,  the  vicar  not  only 
gave  him  no  encouragement,  but  spoke  gravely  of  the 
near  approach  of  the  contest  for  honours,  of  the 
necessity  of  concentrating  every  force  for  the  coming 
struggle,  and  expressed  at  the  same  time  the  firm  con 
viction  that,  if  John  did  his  best,  he  ought  to  be  the 
senior  classic  in  the  year. 

Even  Mrs.  Goddard  urged  him  to  go.  Of  course  he 
asked  her  advice.  He  would  not  have  lost  that  op 
portunity  of  making  her  speak  of  himself,  nor  of 
gauging  the  exact  extent  of  the  interest  he  hoped  she 
felt  in  him. 

It  was  two  or  three  days  after  the  long  conversation 
he  had  enjoyed  with  her.  In  that  time  they  had 
met  often  and  John's  admiration  for  her,  strengthened 
by  his  own  romantic  desire  to  be  really  in  love,  had 
begun  to  assume  proportions  which  startled  Mrs.  God 
dard  and  annoyed  Mr.  Juxon.  The  latter  felt  that  the 
boy  was  in  his  way ;  whenever  he  wanted  to  see  Mrs. 
Goddard,  John  was  at  her  side,  talking  eagerly  and 
contesting  his  position  against  the  squire  with  a  fierce 
ness  which  in  an  older  and  wiser  man  would  have 
been  in  the  worst  possible  taste.  Even  as  it  was,  Mr. 
Juxon  looked  considerably  annoyed  as  he  stood  by, 
smoothing  his  smooth  hair  from  time  to  time  with  his 
large  white  hand  and  feeling  that  even  at  his  age,  and 


132  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

with  his  experience,  a  man  might  sometimes  cut  a 
poor  figure. 

On  the  particular  occasion  when  the  relations  be 
tween  John  and  the  squire  became  an  object  of  com 
ment  to  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  whole  party  were  assembled 
at  Mrs.  Goddard's  cottage.  She  had  invited  every 
body  to  tea,  a  meal  which  in  her  little  household 
represented  a  compromise  between  her  appetite  and 
Nellie's.  She  had  felt  that  in  the  small  festivities  of 
the  Billingsfield  Christmas  season  she  was  called  upon 
to  do  her  share  with  the  rest  and,  being  a  simple 
woman,  she  took  her  part  simply,  and  did  not  dignify 
the  entertainment  of  her  four  friends  by  calling  it  a 
dinner.  The  occasion  was  none  the  less  hospitable, 
for  she  gave  both  time  and  thought  to  her  prepara 
tions.  Especially  she  had  considered  the  question  of 
precedence ;  it  was  doubtful,  she  thought,  whether  the 
squire  or  the  vicar  should  sit  upon  her  right  hand. 
The  squire,  as  being  lord  of  the  manor,  represented 
the  powers  temporal,  the  vicar  on  the  other  hand 
represented  the  church,  which  on  ordinary  occasions 
takes  precedence  of  the  lay  faculty.  She  had  at  last 
privately  consulted  Mr.  Juxon,  in  whom  she  had  the 
greatest  confidence,  asking  him  frankly  which  she 
should  do,  and  Mr.  Juxon  had  unhesitatingly  yielded 
the  post  of  honour  to  the  vicar,  adding  to  enforce  his 
opinion  the  very  plausible  argument  that  if  he,  the 
squire,  took  Mrs.  Goddard  in  to  tea,  the  vicar  would 
have  to  give  his  arm  either  to  little  Nellie  or  to  his 
own  wife.  Mrs.  Goddard  was  convinced  and  the  affair 
was  a  complete  success. 

John  felt  that  he  could  not  complain  of  his  position, 
but  as  he  was  separated  from  the  object  of  his  admira 
tion  during  the  whole  meal,  he  resolved  to  indemnify 


ix.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         133 

himself  for  his  sufferings  by  monopolising  her  conver 
sation  during  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The  squire  on 
the  other  hand,  who  had  been  obliged  to  talk  to  Mrs. 
Ambrose  during  most  of  the  time  while  they  were 
at  table,  and  who,  moreover,  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  he  had  seen  almost  enough  of  John  Short,  deter 
mined  to  give  the  young  man  a  lesson  in  the  art  of 
interesting  women  in  general  and  Mrs.  Goddard  in 
particular.  She,  indeed,  would  not  have  been  a 
woman  at  all  had  she  not  understood  the  two  men 
and  their  intentions.  After  tea  the  party  congregated 
round  the  fire  in  the  little  drawing-room,  standing 
in  a  circle,  of  which  their  hostess  formed  the  centre. 
Mr.  Juxon  and  John,  anticipating  that  Mrs.  Goddard 
must  ultimately  sit  upon  one  side  or  other  of  the 
fireplace  had  at  first  chosen  opposite  sides,  each  hop 
ing  that  she  would  take  the  chair  nearest  to  himself. 
But  Mrs.  Goddard  remained  standing  an  unreasonably 
long  time,  for  the  very  reason  that  she  did  not  choose 
to  sit  beside  either  of  them.  Seeing  this  the  squire, 
who  had  perhaps  a  greater  experience  than  his  adver 
sary  in  this  kind  of  strategic  warfare,  left  his  place 
and  put  himself  on  the  same  side  as  John.  He  argued 
that  Mrs.  Goddard  would  probably  then  choose  the 
opposite  side  whereas  John  who  was  younger  would 
think  she  would  come  towards  the  two  where  they 
stood  ;  John  would  consequently  lose  time,  Mr.  Juxon 
would  cross  again  and  instal  himself  by  her  side  while 
his  enemy  was  hesitating. 

While  these  moves  and  counter-moves  were  pro 
ceeding,  the  conversation  was  general.  The  vicar  was 
for  the  hundredth  time  admiring  the  Andrea  del  Sarto 
over  the  chimney-piece  and  his  wife  was  explaining 
her  general  objections  to  the  representation  of  sacred 


134  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

subjects  upon  canvas,  while  Mrs.  Goddard  answered 
each  in  turn  and  endeavoured  to  disagree  with  neither. 
What  the  squire  had  foreseen  when  he  made  his  last 
move,  however,  actually  took  place  at  last.  Mrs. 
Goddard  established  herself  upon  the  side  opposite  the 
two  men.  Mr.  Juxon  crossed  rapidly  to  where  she 
was  seated,  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  had  turned  with 
the  intention  of  speaking  to  the  squire,  found  herself 
confronted  by  John.  He  saw  that  he  had  been 
worsted  by  his  foe  and  immediately  lost  his  temper ; 
but  being  brought  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  obliged  to  control  it  as  he  might.  That  excellent 
lady  beamed  upon  him  with  a  maternal  smile  of  the 
kind  which  is  peculiarly  irritating  to  young  men.  He 
struggled  to  get  away  however,  glancing  over  Mrs. 
Ambrose's  shoulder  at  the  squire  and  longing  to  be 
"  at  him "  as  he  would  have  expressed  it.  But  the 
squire  was  not  to  be  got  at  so  easily,  for  the  vicar's 
wife  was  of  a  fine  presence  and  covered  much  ground. 
John  involuntarily  thought  of  the  dyke  before  Troy, 
of  Hector  and  his  heroes  attempting  to  storm  it 
and  of  the  Ajaces  and  Sarpedon  defending  it  and 
glaring  down  from  above.  He  could  appreciate 
Hector's  feelings — Mrs.  Ambrose  was  very  like  the 
dyke. 

The  squire  smiled  serenely  and  smoothed  his  hair 
as  he  talked  to  Mrs.  Goddard  and  she  herself  looked 
by  no  means  discontented,  thereby  adding,  as  it  were, 
an  insult  to  the  injury  done  to  John. 

"  I  shall  always  envy  you  the  cottage,"  the  squire 
was  saying.  "I  have  not  a  single  room  in  the  Hall 
that  is  half  so  cheery  in  the  evening." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  my  terror  when  we  first  met," 
answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  "do  you  remember?  You 


IX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          135 

frightened  me  by  saying  you  would  like  to  live  here. 
I  thought  you  meant  it." 

"You  must  have  thought  I  was  the  most  un 
mannerly  of  barbarians." 

"  Instead  of  being  the  best  of  landlords,"  added  Mrs. 
Goddard  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  that,"  said  Mr. 
Juxon,  settling  himself  in  his  chair.  "  But  I  believe  I 
am  by  nature  an  exceedingly  comfortable  man,  and  I 
never  fail  to  consult  the  interests  of  my  comfort." 

"And  of  mine.  Think  of  all  you  have  done  to 
improve  this  place.  I  can  never  thank  you  enough. 
I  suppose  one  always  feels  particularly  grateful  at 
Christmas  time — does  not  one  ? " 

"  One  has  more  to  be  grateful  for,  it  seems  to  me — 
in  our  climate,  too.  People  in  southern  countries 
never  really  know  what  comfort  means,  because 
nature  never  makes  them  thoroughly  uncomfortable. 
Only  a  man  who  is  freezing  can  appreciate  a  good 
fire." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  a  good  deal  in  such 
places,"  suggested  Mrs.  Goddard,  vaguely. 

"Oh  yes — everywhere,"  answered  the  squire  with 
equal  indefiniteness.  "  By  the  bye,  talking  of  travel 
ling,  when  is  our  young  friend  going  away  ? "  There 
was  not  a  shade  of  ill-humour  in  the  question. 

"  The  day  after  New  Year's — I  believe." 

"  He  has  had  a  very  pleasant  visit." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  I  hope  it  will  do 
him  a  great  deal  of  good." 

"  Why  ?  Was  he  ill  ?  Ah — I  remember,  they  said 
he  had  worked  too  hard.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to 
work  too  hard,  especially  when  one  is  very  young." 

"  He  is  very  young,  is  not  he  ? "  remarked  Mrs. 


136  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Goddard  with  a  faint  smile,  remembering  the  many 
conversations  she  had  had  with  him. 

"  Very.  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that — well,  that  he 
was  losing  his  head  a  little  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  his  companion  innocently.  "  What 
about  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  he  has  rather  a  peculiar  tem 
per.  He  is  perpetually  getting  very  angry  with  no 
ostensible  reason — and  then  he  glares  at  one  like  an 
angry  cat." 

"Take  care,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "he  might  hear 
you." 

"  Do  him  good,"  said  the  squire  cheerfully. 

"  Oh,  no  !  It  would  hurt  his  feelings  dreadfully. 
How  can  you  be  so  unkind  ? " 

"He  is  a  very  good  boy,  you  know.  Really,  I 
believe  he  is.  Only  he  is  inclined  to  be  rather  too 
unreasonable ;  I  should  think  he  might  be  satisfied." 

"  Satisfied  with  what  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Goddard, 
who  did  not  wish  to  understand. 

"  With  the  way  you  have  treated  him,"  returned 
the  squire  bluntly.  "  You  have  been  wonderfully 
good  to  him." 

"  Have  I  ? "  The  faint  colour  rose  to  her  cheek. 
"  I  don't  know — poor  fellow !  I  daresay  his  life  at 
Cambridge  is  very  dull." 

"Yes.  Entirely  devoid  of  that  species  of  amuse 
ment  which  he  has  enjoyed  so  abundantly  in  Billings- 
field.  It  is  not  every  undergraduate  who  has  a  chance 
to  talk  to  you  for  a  week  at  a  time." 

Mr.  Juxon  made  the  remark  very  calmly,  without 
seeming  to  be  in  the  least  annoyed.  He  was  much 
too  wise  a  man  to  appear  to  be  displeased  at  Mrs. 
Goddard's  treatment  of  John.  Moreover,  he  felt  that 


IX. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         137 


on  the  present  occasion,  at  least,  John  had  been 
summarily  worsted ;  it  was  his  turn  to  be  mag 
nanimous. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  make  compliments,  I  will  go 
away,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  I  ?  I  never  made  a  compliment  in  my  life," 
replied  the  squire  complacently.  "  Do  you  think  it  is 
a  compliment  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Short  probably 
enjoys  your  conversation  much  more  than  the  study 
of  Greek  roots  ? " 

«  Well — not  exactly " 

"  Besides,  in  general,"  continued  the  squire,  "  com 
pliments  are  mere  waste  of  breath.  If  a  woman  has 
any  vanity  she  knows  her  own  good  points  much 
better  than  any  man  who  attempts  to  explain  them  to 
her ;  and  if  she  has  no  vanity,  no  amount  of  explana 
tion  of  her  merits  will  make  her  see  them  in  a  proper 
.light." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  thought 
fully.  "  It  never  struck  me  before.  I  wonder  whether 
that  is  the  reason  women  always  like  men  who  never 
make  any  compliments  at  all  ? " 

The  squire's  face  assumed  an  amusing  expression  of 
inquiry  and  surprise. 

"  Is  that  personal  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh — of  course  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard  in 
some  confusion.  She  blushed  and  turning  towards 
the  fire  took  up  the  poker  and  pretended  to  stir  the 
coals.  Women  always  delight  in  knocking  a  good  fire 
to  pieces,  out  of  pure  absence  of  mind.  John  Short 
saw  the  movement  and,  escaping  suddenly  from  the 
maternal  conversation  of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  threw  himself 
upon  his  knee  on  the  hearth-rug  and  tried  to  take  the 
poker  from  his  hostess's  hand. 


138         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Goddard,  don't !  Let  me  do  it — please!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"  But  I  can  do  it  very  well  myself,"  said  she 
protesting  and  not  relaxing  her  hold  upon  the  poker. 
But  John  was  obstinate  in  his  determination  to  save 
her  trouble,  and  rudely  tried  to  get  the  instrument 
away. 

"  Please  don't — you  hurt  me,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard 
petulantly. 

"  Oh — I  beg  your  pardon — I  wanted  to  help  you," 
said  John  leaving  his  hold.  "  I  did  not  really  hurt 
you — did  I  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  tenderly. 

"  Dreadfully,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard,  half  angry  and 
half  amused  at  his  impatience  and  subsequent  con 
trition.  The  squire  sat  complacently  in  his  chair, 
watching  the  little  scene.  John  hated  him  more  than 
ever,  and  grew  very  red.  Mrs.  Goddard  saw  the  boy's 
embarrassment  and  presently  relented. 

"  I  daresay  you  will  do  it  better  than  I,"  she  said, 
handing  him  the  poker,  which  John  seized  with  alacrity. 
"  That  big  coal — there,"  she  added,  pointing  to  a 
smouldering  block  in  the  corner  of  the  grate. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  said  John.  "  I  only 
wanted  to  help  you."  He  knelt  by  her  side  poking 
the  fire  industriously.  "  I  only  wanted  to  get  a  chance 
to  talk  to  you,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice,  barely  audible 
to  Mrs.  Goddard  as  she  leaned  forward. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  do  that  just  now,"  she 
said,  not  unkindly,  but  with  the  least  shade  of  severity 
in  her  tone.  "You  will  get  dreadfully  hot  if  you 
stay  there,  so  near  the  fire." 

"I  don't  mind  the  heat  in  the  least,"  said  John 
heroically.  Nevertheless  as  she  did  not  give  him  any 
further  encouragement  he  was  presently  obliged  to  re- 


rx.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         139 

tire,  greatly  discomfited.  He  could  not  spend  the 
evening  on  his  knees  with  the  poker  in  his  hand. 

"  Bad  failure,"  remarked  the  squire  in  an  undertone 
as  soon  as  John  had  rejoined  Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  had 
not  quite  finished  her  lecture  on  homoeopathy. 

Mrs.  Goddard  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked 
at  Mr.  Juxon  rather  coolly.  She  did  not  want  him  to 
laugh  at  John,  though  she  was  not  willing  to  encourage 
John  herself. 

"  You  should  not  be  unkind,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
such  a  nice  boy — why  should  you  wish  him  to  be 
uncomfortable." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  in  the  least.  I  could  not  help  being 
amused  a  little.  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  be  un 
kind." 

Indeed  the  squire  had  not  shown  himself  to  be  so, 
on  the  whole,  and  he  did  not  refer  to  the  matter  again 
during  the  evening.  He  kept  his  place  for  some  time 
by  Mrs.  Goddard's  side  and  then,  judging  that  he  had 
sufficiently  asserted  his  superiority,  rose  and  talked  to 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  But  John,  being  now  in  a  thoroughly 
bad  humour,  could  not  take  his  vacant  seat  with  a 
good  grace.  He  stood  aloof  and  took  up  a  book 
that  lay  upon  the  table  and  avoided  looking  at  Mrs. 
Goddard.  By  and  by,  when  the  party  broke  up,  he  said 
good-night  in  such  a  particularly  cold  and  formal  tone 
of  voice  that  she  stared  at  him  in  surprise.  But  he 
took  no  notice  of  her  look  and  went  away  after  the 
Ambroses,  in  that  state  of  mind  which  boys  call  a 
huff. 

But  on  the  following  day  John  repented  of  his 
behaviour.  All  day  long  he  wandered  about  the  gar 
den  of  the  vicarage,  excusing  himself  from  joining  the 
daily  skating  which  formed  the  staple  of  amusement 


140         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.        CHAP 

during  the  Christmas  week,  by  saying  that  he  had 
an  idea  for  a  copy  of  verses  and  must  needs  work  it 
out.  But  he  inwardly  hoped  that  Mrs.  Goddard  would 
come  to  the  vicarage  late  in  the  afternoon,  without  the 
inevitable  Mr.  Juxon,  and  that  he  might  then  get  a 
chance  of  talking  to  her.  He  was  not  quite  sure  what 
he  should  say.  He  would  find  words  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment ;  it  would  at  all  events  be  much  easier  than  to 
meet  her  on  the  ice  at  the  Hall  with  all  the  rest  of 
them  and  to  see  Mr.  Juxon  pushing  her  about  in  that 
detestable  chair,  with  the  unruffled  air  of  superiority 
which  John  so  hated  to  see  upon  his  face.  The  vicar 
suspected  more  than  ever  that  there  was  something 
wrong ;  he  had  seen  some  of  the  by-play  on  the  pre 
vious  evening,  and  had  noticed  John's  ill-concealed 
disappointment  at  being  unable  to  dislodge  the  sturdy 
squire  from  his  seat.  But  Mrs.  Ambrose  seemed  to 
be  very  obtuse,  and  the  vicar  would  have  been  the 
last  to  have  spoken  of  his  suspicions,  even  to  the  wife 
of  his  bosom.  It  was  his  duty  to  induce  John  to  go 
back  to  his  work  at  the  end  of  the  week ;  it  was  not 
his  duty  to  put  imputations  upon  him  which  Mrs. 
Ambrose  would  naturally  exaggerate  and  which  would 
drive  her  excellent  heart  into  a  terrible  state  of  nervous 
anxiety. 

But  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  come  back  to  the  vicarage 
on  that  day,  and  John  went  to  dinner  with  a  sad  heart. 
It  did  not  seem  like  a  day  at  all  if  he  had  not  seen  her 
and  talked  with  her.  He  had  now  no  doubt  whatever 
that  he  was  seriously  in  love,  and  he  set  himself  to 
consider  his  position.  The  more  he  considered  it,  the 
more  irreconcilable  it  seemed  to  be  with  the  passion 
which  beset  him.  A  child  could  see  that  for  several 
years,  at  least,  he  would  not  be  in  a  position  to  marry. 


IX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         141 

With  Mr.  Juxon  at  hand  from  year's  end  to  year's  end, 
the  owner  of  the  Hall,  of  the  Billingsfield  property  and 
according  to  all  appearances  of  other  resources  besides, 
—with  such  a  man  constantly  devoted  to  her,  could  Mrs. 
Goddard  be  expected  to  wait  for  poor  John  three  years, 
even  two  years,  from  the  time  of  the  examination  for 
the  classical  Tripos  ?  Nothing  was  more  improbable, 
he  was  forced  to  admit.  And  yet,  the  idea  of  life  if 
he  did  not  marry  Mrs.  Goddard  was  dismal  beyond  all 
expression;  he  would  probably  not  survive  it.  He 
did  not  know  what  he  should  do.  He  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  declaring  his  love  to  her  at  once.  He  re 
membered  with  pain  that  she  had  a  terrible  way  of 
laughing  at  him  when  he  grew  confidential  or  too  com 
plimentary,  and  he  dreaded  lest  at  the  supreme  moment 
of  his  life  he  should  appear  ridiculous  in  her  eyes — he, 
a  mere  undergraduate.  If  he  came  out  at  the  head  of 
the  Tripos  it  would  be  different ;  and  yet  that  seemed 
so  long  to  wait,  especially  while  Mr.  Juxon  lived  at 
the  Hall  and  Mrs.  Goddard  lived  at  the  park  gates. 
Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him  which  filled  him  with 
delight ;  it  was  just  possible  that  Mr.  Juxon  had  no 
intention  of  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard.  If  he  had  any 
such  views  he  would  probably  have  declared  them 
before  now,  for  he  had  met  her  every  day  during  more 
than  half  a  year.  John  longed  to  ask  some  one  the 
question.  Perhaps  Mr.  Ambrose,  who  might  be  sup 
posed  to  know  everything  connected  with  Mrs.  Goddard, 
could  tell  him.  He  felt  very  nervous  at  the  idea  of 
speaking  to  the  vicar  on  the  subject,  and  yet  it  seemed 
to  him  that  no  one  else  could  set  his  mind  at  rest. 
If  he  were  quite  certain  that  Mr.  Juxon  had  no  inten 
tion  of  offering  himself  to  the  charming  tenant  of  the 
cottage,  he  might  return  to  his  work  with  some  sense 


142  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

of  security  in  the  future.  Otherwise  he  saw  only  the 
desperate  alternative  of  throwing  himself  at  her  feet 
and  declaring  that  he  loved  her,  or  of  going  back  to 
Cambridge  with  the  dreadful  anticipation  of  hearing 
any  day  that  she  had  married  the  squire.  To  be 
laughed  at  would  be  bad,  but  to  feel  that  he  had  lost 
her  irrevocably,  without  a  struggle,  would  be  awful. 
No  one  but  the  vicar  could  and  would  tell  him  the 
truth ;  it  would  be  bitter  to  ask  such  a  question,  but 
it  must  be  done.  Having  at  last  come  to  this  formid 
able  resolution,  towards  the  conclusion  of  dinner,  his 
spirits  rose  a  little.  He  took  another  glass  of  the 
vicar's  mild  ale  and  felt  that  he  could  face  his  fate. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  in  the  study,  Mr. 
Ambrose  ?"  he  said  as  they  rose  from  table. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  vicar ;  and  having  conducted 
his  wife  to  the  drawing-room,  he  returned  to  find  John. 
There  was  a  low,  smouldering  fire  in  the  study  grate, 
and  John  had  lit  a  solitary  candle.  The  room  looked 
very  dark  and  dismal  and  John  was  seated  in  one  of 
the  black  leather  chairs,  waiting. 

"Anything  about  those  verses  you  were  speaking 
of  to-day  ? "  asked  the  vicar  cheerfully,  in  anticipation 
of  a  pleasant  classical  chat. 

"No,"  said  John,  gloomily.  "The  fact  is — "  he 
cleared  his  throat,  "  the  fact  is,  I  want  to  ask  you 
rather  a  delicate  question,  sir." 

The  vicar's  heavy  eyebrows  contracted ;  the  lines 
of  his  face  all  turned  downwards,  and  his  long,  clean- 
shaved  upper  lip  closed  sharply  upon  its  fellow,  like  a 
steel  trap.  He  turned  his  gray  eyes  upon  John's 
averted  face  with  a  searching  look. 

"  Have  you  got  into  any  trouble  at  Trinity,  John  ? " 
he  asked  severely. 


IX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          143 

"  Oh  no — no  indeed,"  said  John.  Nothing  was 
further  from  his  thoughts  than  his  college  at  that 
moment.  "I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  which  no 
one  else  can  answer.  Is — do  you  think  that — that 
Mr.  Juxon  has  any  idea  of  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard  ? " 

The  vicar  started  in  astonishment  and  laid  both 
hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"  What — in  the  world — put  that — into  your  head  ?" 
he  asked  very  slowly,  emphasising  every  word  of  his 
question.  John  was  prepared  to  see  his  old  tutor 
astonished  but  was  rather  taken  aback  at  the  vicar's 
tone. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  likely,  sir  ? "  he  insisted. 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  the  vicar,  still  eyeing 
him  suspiciously.  "  Certainly  not.  I  have  positive 
reasons  to  prove  the  contrary.  But,  my  dear  John, 
why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  sensible,  do  you  ask 
me  such  a  question  ?  You  don't  seriously  think  of 
proposing " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not,"  said  John  doggedly, 
seeing  that  he  was  found  out. 

"  You  don't  see  why  you  should  not  ?  Why  the 
thing  is  perfectly  absurd,  not  to  say  utterly  impossible  ! 
John,  you  are  certainly  mad." 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  repeated  John.  "  I  am  a  grown 
man.  I  have  good  prospects " 

"  Good  prospects ! "  ejaculated  the  vicar  in  horror. 
"  Good  prospects  !  Why,  you  are  only  an  undergradu 
ate  at  Cambridge." 

"  I  may  be  senior  classic  in  a  few  months,"  objected 
John.  "  That  is  not  such  a  bad  prospect,  it  seems  to 
me." 

"  It  means  that  you  may  get  a  fellowship,  probably 
will — in  the  course  of  a  few  years.  But  you  lose  it 


144  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

if  you  marry.  Besides — do  you  know  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  is  ten  years  older  than  you,  and  more  ? " 

"  Impossible,"  said  John  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"  I  know  that  she  is.  She  will  be  two  and  thirty 
on  her  next  birthday,  and  you  are  not  yet  one  and 
twenty." 

"  I  shall  be  next  month,"  argued  John,  who  was 
somewhat  taken  aback,  however,  by  the  alarming  news 
of  Mrs.  Goddard's  age.  "Besides,  I  can  go  into  the 
church,  before  I  get  a  fellowship " 

"  No,  you  can't,"  said  the  vicar  energetically.  "  You 
won't  be  able  to  manage  it.  If  you  do,  you  will  have 
to  put  up  with  a  poor  living." 

"  That  would  not  matter.  Mrs.  Goddard  has  some 
thing — 

"  An  honourable  prospect !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ambrose, 
growing  more  and  more  excited.  "  To  marry  a  woman 
ten  years  older  than  yourself  because  she  has  a  little 
money  of  her  own  !  You  !  I  would  not  have  thought 
it  of  you,  John — indeed  I  would  not ! " 

Indeed  no  one  was  more  surprised  than  John  Short 
himself,  when  he  found  himself  arguing  the  possibilities 
of  his  marriage  with  his  old  tutor.  But  he  was  an 
obstinate  young  fellow  enough  and  was  not  inclined  to 
give  up  the  fight  easily. 

"  Eeally,"  he  objected,  "  I  cannot  see  anything  so 
very  terrible  in  the  idea.  I  shall  certainly  make  my 
way  in  the  world.  You  know  that  it  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  her  money.  Many  men  have  married  women 
ten  years  older  than  themselves,  and  not  half  so  beauti 
ful  and  charming,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  vicar,  "  and  if  they 
have,  why  it  has  been  very  different,  that  is  all.  Be 
sides,  you  have  not  known  Mrs.  Goddard  a  week — 


ix.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         145 

positively  not  more  than  five  days — why,  it  is  mad 
ness  !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  at  the  end  of 
five  days  you  believe  you  are  seriously  attached  to  a 
lady  you  never  saw  in  your  life  before  ?" 

"  I  saw  her  once,"  said  John.  "  That  day  when  I 
waked  Muggins 

"  Once !  Nearly  three  years  ago !  I  have  no 
patience  with  you  John  !  That  a  young  fellow  of 
your  capabilities  should  give  way  to  such  a  boyish 
fancy  !  It  is  absolutely  amazing !  I  thought  you  were 
growing  to  like  her  society  very  much,  but  I  did  not 
believe  it  would  come  to  this  ! " 

"  It  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said  John  stoutly. 

"  It  is  something  to  be  afraid  of,"  answered  the 
vicar. 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  alarmed,"  retorted  John.  "  I  will 
do  nothing  rash.  You  have  set  my  mind  at  rest  in 
assuring  me  that  she  will  not  marry  Mr.  Juxon.  I 
shall  not  think  of  offering  myself  to  Mrs.  Goddard 
until  after  the  Tripos." 

"  Offering  myself  " — how  deliciously  important  the 
expression  sounded  to  John's  own  ears  !  It  conveyed 
such  a  delightful  sense  of  the  possibilities  of  life 
when  at  last  he  should  feel  that  he  was  in  a  posi 
tion  to  offer  himself  to  any  woman,  especially  to 
Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  ask  you  to  come  down, 
even  if  you  do  turn  out  senior  classic,"  said  the  vicar, 
still  fuming  with  excitement.  "But  if  you  put  off 
your  rash  action  until  then,  you  will  probably  have 
changed  your  mind." 

"  I  will  never  change  my  mind,"  said  John  con 
fidently.  It  was  evident,  nevertheless,  that  if  the 
romance  of  his  life  were  left  to  the  tender  mercies 

L 


146  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

of  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose,  it  was  likely  to 
come  to  an  abrupt  termination.  When  the  two  re 
turned  to  the  society  of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  vicar  was 
still  very  much  agitated  and  John  was  plunged  in  a 
gloomy  melancholy. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         147 


CHAPTEE   X. 

THE  vicar's  suspicions  were  more  than  realised  and  he 
passed  an  uncomfortable  day  after  his  interview  with 
John,  in  debating  what  he  ought  to  do,  whether  he 
ought  to  do  anything  at  all,  or  whether  he  should 
merely  hasten  his  old  pupil's  departure  and  leave 
matters  to  take  care  of  themselves.  He  was  a  very 
conscientious  man,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  responsible 
for  John's  conduct  towards  Mrs.  Goddard,  seeing  that 
she  had  put  herself  under  his  protection,  and  that 
John  was  almost  like  one  of  his  family.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  ask  counsel  of  his  wife,  but  he  rejected 
the  plan,  reflecting  with  great  justice  that  she  was 
very  fond  of  John  and  had  at  first  not  been  sure  of 
liking  Mrs.  Goddard ;  she  would  be  capable  of  thinking 
that  the  latter  had  "  led  Short  on,"  as  she  would  prob 
ably  say.  The  vicar  did  not  believe  this,  and  was 
therefore  loath  that  any  one  else  should.  He  felt  that 
circumstances  had  made  him  Mrs.  Goddard's  protector, 
and  he  was  moreover  personally  attached  to  her;  he 
would  not  therefore  do  or  say  anything  whereby  she 
was  likely  to  appear  to  any  one  else  in  an  unfavourable 
light.  It  was  incredible  that  she  should  have  given 
John  any  real  encouragement.  Mr.  Ambrose  wondered 
whether  he  ought  to  warn  her  of  his  pupil's  madness. 
But  when  he  thought  about  that,  it  seemed  unneces- 


148  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

sary.  It  was  unlikely  that  John  would  betray  himself 
during  his  present  visit,  since  the  vicar  had  solemnly 
assured  him  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  a  marriage 
so  far  as  Mr.  Juxon  was  concerned.  It  was  un 
doubtedly  a  very  uncomfortable  situation  but  there 
was  evidently  nothing  to  be  done ;  Mr.  Ambrose  felt 
that  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Goddard  would  be  to  precipitate 
matters  in  a  way  which  could  not  but  cause  much 
humiliation  to  John  Short  and  much  annoyance  to 
herself.  He  accordingly  held  his  peace,  but  his  upper 
lip  set  itself  stiffly  and  his  eyes  had  a  combative  ex 
pression  which  told  his  wife  that  there  was  something 
the  matter. 

After  breakfast  John  went  out,  on  pretence  of  walk 
ing  in  the  garden,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  were  left 
alone.  The  latter,  as  usual  after  the  morning  meal, 
busied  herself  about  the  room,  searching  out  those 
secret  corners  which  she  suspected  Susan  of  having  for 
gotten  to  dust.  The  vicar  stood  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow.  The  weather  was  gray  and  it  seemed  likely  that 
there  would  be  a  thaw  which  would  spoil  the  skating. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "  that  John  is  far  from 
well." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  inquired  the  vicar, 
who  was  thinking  of  him  at  that  very  moment. 

"  Anybody  might  see  it.  He  has  no  appetite — he 
ate  nothing  at  breakfast  this  morning.  He  looks  pale. 
My  dear,  that  boy  will  certainly  break  down." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose  still 
looking  out  of  the  window.  His  hands  were  in  his 
pockets,  thrusting  the  skirts  of  his  clerical  coat  to 
right  and  left ;  he  slowly  raised  himself  upon  his  toes 
and  let  himself  down  again,  repeating  the  operation  as 
though  it  helped  him  to  think. 


X.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          149 

"  That  is  the  way  you  spoil  all  your  coats,  Augustin," 
said  his  wife  looking  at  him  from  behind.  "  I  assure 
you,  my  dear,  that  boy  is  not  well.  Poor  fellow,  all 
alone  at  college  with  nobody  to  look  after  him " 

"We  have  all  had  to  go  through  that.  I  do  not 
think  it  hurts  him  a  bit,"  said  the  vicar,  slowly  remov 
ing  his  hands  from  his  pockets  in  deference  to  his 
wife's  suggestion. 

"  Then  what  is  it,  I  would  like  to  know  ?  There 
is  certainly  something  the  matter.  Now  I  ask  you 
whether  he  looks  like  himself?" 

"  Perhaps  he  does  look  a  little  tired." 

"  Tired  !  There  is  something  on  his  mind,  Augustin. 
I  am  positively  certain  there  is  something  on  his  mind. 
Why  won't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  My  dear — "  began  the  vicar,  and  then  stopped 
short.  He  was  a  very  truthful  man,  and  as  he  knew 
very  well  what  was  the  matter  with  John  he  was  em 
barrassed  to  find  an  answer.  "  My  dear,"  he  repeated, 
"  I  do  not  think  he  is  ill." 

"  Then  I  am  right,"  retorted  Mrs.  Ambrose,  triumph 
antly.  "  It  is  just  as  I  thought,  there  is  something 
on  his  mind.  Don't  deny  it,  Augustin  ;  there  is  some 
thing  on  his  mind." 

Mr.  Ambrose  was  silent;  he  glared  fiercely  at  the 
window  panes. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me?"  insisted  his  better  half. 
"  I  am  quite  sure  you  know  all  about  it.  Augustin, 
do  you  know,  or  do  you  not  ?  " 

Thus  directly  questioned  the  vicar  turned  sharply 
round,  sweeping  the  window  with  his  coat  tails. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  shortly,  "  I  do  know.  Can  you 
not  imagine  that  it  may  be  a  matter  which  John  does 
not  care  to  have  mentioned  ? " 


150  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  grew  red  with  annoyance.  She  had 
set  her  heart  on  finding  out  what  had  disturbed  John, 
and  the  vicar  had  apparently  made  up  his  mind  that 
she  should  not  succeed.  Such  occurrences  were  very 
rare  between  that  happy  couple. 

"  I  cannot  believe  he  has  done  anything  wrong,"  said 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  Anything  which  need  be  concealed 
from  me — the  interest  I  have  always  taken 

"  He  has  not  done  anything  wrong,"  said  the  vicar 
impatiently.  "I  do  wish  you  would  drop  the  sub 
ject " 

"  Then  why  should  it  be  concealed  from  me  ? " 
objected  his  wife  with  admirable  logic.  "  If  it  is  any 
thing  good  he  need  not  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel, 
I  should  think." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  things  which  are  neither  bad 
nor  good,"  argued  the  vicar,  who  felt  that  if  he  could 
draw  Mrs.  Ambrose  into  a  Socratic  discussion  he  was 
safe. 

"  That  is  a  distinct  prevarication,  Augustin,"  said  she 
severely.  "  I  am  surprised  at  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  retorted  the  vicar.  "  What  has  occurred 
to  John  is  not  owing  to  any  fault  of  his."  In  his  own 
mind  the  good  man  excused  himself  by  saying  that 
John  could  not  have  helped  falling  in  love  with  Mrs. 
Goddard.  But  his  wife  turned  quickly  upon  him. 

"  That  does  not  prevent  what  has  occurred  to  him, 
as  you  call  it,  from  being  good,  or  more  likely  bad,  to 
judge  from  his  looks." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  driven  to  bay,  "  I 
entirely  decline  to  discuss  the  point." 

"  I  thought  you  trusted  me,  Augustin." 

"So  I  do — certainly — and  I  always  consult  you 
about  my  own  affairs." 


X.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          151 

"  I  think  I  have  as  much  right  to  know  about  John 
as  you  have,"  retorted  his  wife,  who  seemed  deeply 
hurt. 

"  That  is  a  point  then  which  you  ought  to  settle 
with  John,"  said  the  vicar.  "  I  cannot  betray  his 
confidence,  even  to  you." 

"  Oh — then  he  has  been  making  confidences  to 
you  ? " 

"  How  in  the  world  should  I  know  about  his  affairs 
unless  he  told  me  ?" 

"  One  may  see  a  great  many  things  without  being 
told  about  them,  you  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
assuming  a  prim  expression  as  she  examined  a  small 
spot  in  the  tablecloth.  The  vicar  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.  Her  speech,  which  was  made 
quite  at  random,  startled  him.  She,  too,  might  easily 
have  observed  John's  manner  when  he  was  with 
Mrs.  Goddard ;  she  might  have  guessed  the  secret,  and 
have  put  her  own  interpretation  on  John's  sudden 
melancholy. 

"What  may  one  see  ?"  asked  the  vicar  quickly. 

"  I  did  not  say  one  could  see  anything,"  answered 
his  wife.  "  But  from  your  manner  I  infer  that  there 
really  is  something  to  see.  Wait  a  minute — what  can 
it  be?" 

"  Nothing — my  dear,  nothing,"  said  the  vicar  desper 
ately. 

"  Oh,  Augustin,  I  know  you  so  well,"  said  the  im 
placable  Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  I  am  quite  sure  now,  that 
it  is  something  I  have  seen.  Deny  it,  my  dear." 

The  vicar  was  silent  and  bit  his  long  upper  lip  as 
he  marched  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Of  course — you  cannot  deny  it,"  she  continued. 
"  It  is  perfectly  clear.  The  very  first  day  he  arrived 


152  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

— when  you  came  down  from  the  Hall,  in  the  even 
ing — Augustin,  I  have  got  it !  It  is  Mrs.  Goddard — 
now  don't  tell  me  it  is  not.  I  am  quite  sure  it  is 
Mrs.  Goddard.  How  stupid  of  me !  Is  not  it  Mrs. 
Goddard  ? " 

"  If  you  are  so  positive/'  said  the  vicar,  resorting  to 
a  form  of  defence  generally  learned  in  the  nursery, 
"  why  do  you  ask  me  ? " 

"  I  insist  upon  knowing,  Augustin,  is  it,  or  is  it  not, 
Mrs.  Goddard?" 

"  My  dear,  I  positively  refuse  to  answer  any  more 
questions,"  said  the  vicar  with  tardy  firmness. 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  matter,"  retorted  Mrs.  Ambrose  in 
complete  triumph,  "  if  it  were  not  Mrs.  Goddard  of 
course  you  would  say  so  at  once." 

A  form  of  argument  so  unanswerable,  that  the  vicar 
hastily  left  the  room  feeling  that  he  had  basely  be 
trayed  John's  confidence,  and  muttering  something 
about  intolerable  curiosity.  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  van 
quished  her  husband,  as  she  usually  did  on  those  rare 
occasions  when  anything  approaching  to  a  dispute  arose 
between  them.  Having  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
"  it "  was  Mrs.  Goddard,  the  remainder  of  the  secret 
needed  no  discovery.  It  was  plain  that  John  must 
be  in  love  with  the  tenant  of  the  cottage,  and  it  seemed 
likely  that  it  would  devolve  upon  Mrs.  Ambrose  to 
clear  up  the  matter.  She  was  very  fond  of  John  and 
her  first  impression  was  that  Mrs.  Goddard,  whom  she 
now  again  suspected  of  having  foreign  blood,  had  "  led 
him  on  " — an  impression  which  the  vicar  had  antici 
pated  when  he  rashly  resolved  not  to  tell  his  wife 
John's  secret.  She  knew  very  well  that  the  vicar 
must  have  told  John  his  mind  in  regard  to  such  an 
attachment,  and  she  easily  concluded  that  he  must 


X.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          153 

have  done  so  on  the  previous  evening  when  John  called 
him  into  the  study.  But  she  had  just  won  a  victory 
over  her  husband,  and  she  consequently  felt  that  he 
was  weak,  probably  too  weak  to  save  the  situation, 
and  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  she  ought  to  do 
something  immediately.  Unhappily  she  did  not  see 
quite  clearly  what  was  to  be  done.  She  might  go 
straight  to  Mrs.  Goddard  and  accuse  her  of  having  en 
gaged  John's  affections ;  but  the  more  she  thought  of 
that,  the  more  diffident  she  grew  in  regard  to  the  result 
of  such  an  interview.  Curiosity  had  led  her  to  a  cer 
tain  point,  but  caution  prevented  her  from  going  any 
further.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  very  cautious.  The  habit 
of  living  in  a  small  place,  feeling  that  all  her  actions 
were  watched  by  the  villagers  and  duly  commented 
upon  by  them,  had  made  her  even  more  careful  than 
she  was  by  nature.  It  would  be  very  unwise  to  bring 
about  a  scene  with  Mrs.  Goddard  unless  she  were  very 
sure  of  the  result.  Mrs.  Goddard  was  hardly  a  friend. 
In  Mrs.  Ambrose's  opinion  an  acquaintance  of  two 
years  and  a  half  standing  involving  almost  daily 
meetings  and  the  constant  exchange  of  civilities  did 
not  constitute  friendship.  Nevertheless  the  vicar's 
wife  would  have  been  ashamed  to  own  that  after  such 
long  continued  intercourse  she  was  wholly  ignorant  of 
Mrs.  Goddard's  real  character ;  especially  as  the  latter 
had  requested  the  vicar  to  tell  Mrs.  Ambrose  her  story 
when  she  first  appeared  at  Billingsfield.  Moreover,  as 
her  excitement  at  the  victory  she  had  gained  over  her 
husband  began  to  subside,  she  found  herself  reviewing 
mentally  the  events  of  the  last  few  days.  She  remem 
bered  distinctly  that  John  had  perpetually  pursued 
Mrs.  Goddard,  and  that  although  the  latter  seemed  to 
find  him  agreeable  enough,  she  had  never  to  Mrs. 


154  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Ambrose's  knowledge  given  him  any  of  those  open 
encouragements  in  the  way  of  smiles  and  signals, 
which  in  the  good  lady's  mind  were  classified  under 
the  term  "  flirting."  Mrs.  Ambrose's  ideas  of  flirtation 
may  have  been  antiquated ;  thirty  years  of  Billingsfield 
in  the  society  of  the  Eeverend  Augustin  had  not  con 
tributed  to  their  extension ;  but,  on  the  whole,  they 
were  just.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  flirted  with  John. 
It  is  worthy  of  notice  that  in  proportion  as  the  difficul 
ties  she  would  enter  upon  by  demanding  an  explanation 
from  Mrs.  Goddard  seemed  to  grow  in  magnitude,  she 
gradually  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  it  was  John's 
fault.  Half  an  hour  ago,  in  the  flush  of  triumph  she 
had  indignantly  denied  that  anything  could  be  John's 
fault.  She  now  resolved  to  behave  to  him  with  great 
austerity.  Such  an  occurrence  as  his  falling  in  love 
could  not  be  passed  over  with  indifference.  It  seemed 
best  that  he  should  leave  Billingsfield  very  soon. 

John  thought  so  too.  Existence  would  not  be 
pleasant  now  that  the  vicar  knew  his  secret,  and  he 
cursed  the  folly  and  curiosity  which  had  led  him  to 
betray  himself  in  order  to  find  out  whether  Mr.  Juxon 
thought  of  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard.  He  had  now 
resolved  to  return  to  Cambridge  at  once  and  to  work 
his  hardest  until  the  Tripos  was  over.  He  would  then 
come  back  to  Billingsfield  and,  with  his  honours  fresh 
upon  him  and  the  prospect  of  immediate  success  before 
him,  he  would  throw  himself  at  Mrs.  Goddard's  feet. 
But  of  course  he  must  have  one  farewell  interview. 
Oh,  those  farewell  interviews !  Those  leave-takings, 
wherein  often  so  much  is  taken  without  leave ! 

Accordingly  at  luncheon  he  solemnly  announced  his 
intention  of  leaving  the  vicarage  on  the  morrow.  Mrs. 
Ambrose  received  the  news  with  an  equanimity  which 


X.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  155 

made  John  suspicious,  for  she  had  heretofore  constantly 
pressed  him  to  extend  his  holiday,  expressing  the 
greatest  solicitude  for  his  health.  She  now  sat  stony 
as  a  statue  and  said  very  coldly  that  she  was  sorry  he 
had  to  go  so  soon,  but  that,  of  course,  it  could  not  be 
helped.  The  vicar  was  moved  by  his  wife's  apparent 
indifference.  John,  he  said,  might  at  least  have  stayed 
till  the  end  of  the  promised  week ;  but  at  this  sugges 
tion  Mrs.  Ambrose  darted  at  her  husband  a  look  so 
full  of  fierce  meaning,  that  the  vicar  relapsed  into 
silence,  returning  to  the  consideration  of  bread  and 
cheese  and  a  salad  of  mustard  and  cress.  John  saw 
the  look  and  was  puzzled ;  he  did  not  believe  the  vicar 
capable  of  going  straight  to  Mrs.  Ambrose  with  the 
story  of  the  last  night's  interview.  But  he  was  already 
so  much  disturbed  that  he  did  not  attempt  to  explain 
to  himself  what  was  happening. 

But  when  lunch  was  over,  and  he  realised  that  he 
had  declared  his  intention  of  leaving  Billingsfield  on 
the  next  day,  he  saw  that  if  he  meant  to  see  Mrs. 
Goddard  before  he  left  he  must  go  to  her  at  once. 
He  therefore  waited  until  he  heard  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose  talking  together  in  the  sitting-room  and  then 
slipped  quietly  out  by  the  garden  to  the  road. 

He  had  no  idea  what  he  should  say  when  he  met 
Mrs.  Goddard.  He  meant,  of  course  to  let  her  under 
stand,  or  at  least  suppose,  that  he  was  leaving  suddenly 
on  her  account,  but  he  did  not  know  in  the  least  how 
to  accomplish  it.  He  trusted  that  the  words  necessary 
to  him  would  come  into  his  head  spontaneously.  His 
heart  beat  fast  and  he  was  conscious  that  he  blushed 
as  he  rang  the  bell  of  the  cottage.  Almost  before  he 
knew  where  he  was,  he  found  himself  ushered  into  the 
little  drawing-room  and  in  the  presence  of  the  woman 


156         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 

he  now  felt  sure  that  he  loved.  But  to  his  great 
annoyance  she  was  not  alone ;  Nellie  was  with  her. 
Mrs.  Goddard  sat  near  the  fire,  reading  a  review; 
Nellie  was  curled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  deep  sofa  with 
a  book,  her  thick  brown  curls  falling  all  over  her  face 
and  hands  as  she  read.  Mrs.  Goddard  extended  her 
hand,  without  rising. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Short  ?"  she  said.  The  young 
man  stood  hat  in  hand  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  feel 
ing  very  nervous.  It  was  strange  that  he  should 
experience  any  embarrassment  now,  considering  how 
many  hours  he  had  spent  in  her  company  during  the 
last  few  days.  He  blushed  and  stammered. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  I,  in  fact — I  have  come  to  say 
good-bye,"  he  blurted  out. 

"  So  soon  ? "  said  Mrs.  Goddard  calmly.  "  Pray  sit 
down." 

"  Are  you  really  going  away,  Mr.  Short  ? "  asked 
Nellie.  "  We  are  so  sorry  to  lose  you."  The  child  had 
caught  the  phrase  from  a  book  she  had  been  reading, 
and  thought  it  very  appropriate.  Her  mother  smiled. 

"  Yes — as  Nellie  says — we  are  sorry  to  lose  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  thought  you  were  to  stay  until  Monday  ?  " 

"  So  I  was — but — very  urgent  business — not  exactly 
business  of  course,  but  work — calls  me  away  sooner." 
Having  delivered  himself  of  this  masterpiece  of  ex 
planation  John  looked  nervously  at  Nellie  and  then 
at  his  hat  and  then,  with  an  imploring  glance,  at  Mrs. 
Goddard. 

"  But  we  shall  hear  of  you,  Mr.  Short — after  the 
examinations,  shall  we  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  John  eagerly.  "  I  will  come  down 
as  soon  as  the  lists  are  out." 

"  You  have  my  best  wishes,  you  know,"  said  Mrs. 


X.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         157 

Goddard  kindly.  "  I  feel  quite  sure  that  you  will 
really  be  senior  classic." 

"  Mamma  is  always  saying  that — it  is  quite  true," 
explained  Nellie. 

John  blushed  again  and  looked  gratefully  at  Mrs. 
Goddard.  He  wished  Nellie  would  go  away,  but  there 
was  not  the  least  chance  of  that. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  I  often  say  it  We  all 
take  a  great  interest  in  your  success  here." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  murmured  John.  "  Of  course 
I  shall  come  down  at  once  and  tell  you  all  about  it,  if 
I  succeed.  I  do  not  really  expect  to  be  first,  of  course. 
I  shall  be  satisfied  if  I  get  a  place  in  the  first  ten. 
But  I  mean  to  do  my  best." 

"  No  one  can  do  more,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  and  looking  into  the  fire.  Her  face 
was  quiet,  but  not  sad  as  it  sometimes  was.  There 
was  a  long  silence  which  John  did  not  know  "how  to 
break.  Nellie  sat  upon  a  carved  chair  by  the  side  of 
the  fireplace  dangling  her  legs  and  looking  at  her  toes, 
turning  them  alternately  in  and  out.  She  wished  John 
would  go  for  she  wanted  to  get  back  to  her  book,  but 
had  been  told  it  was  not  good  manners  to  read  when 
there  were  visitors.  John  looked  at  Mrs.  Goddard's 
face  and  was  about  to  speak,  and  then  changed  his 
mind  and  grew  red  and  said  nothing.  Had  she  noticed 
his  shyness  she  would  have  made  an  effort  at  con 
versation,  but  she  was  absent-minded  to-day  and  was 
thinking  of  something  else.  Suddenly  she  started  and 
laughed  a  little. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "  What  were  you 
saying,  Mr.  Short  ? "  Had  John  been  saying  anything 
he  would  have  repeated  it,  but  being  thus  interrogated 
he  grew  doubly  embarrassed. 


158  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I — I  have  not  much  to  say — except  good-bye,"  he 
answered. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  You  are 
not  going  this  afternoon  ?  It  is  always  so  unpleasant 
to  say  good-bye,  is  not  it  ? " 

"  Dreadfully,"  answered  John.  "  I  would  rather  say 
anything  else  in  the  world.  No ;  I  am  going  early  to 
morrow  morning.  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  he  added 
desperately.  "  I  must  go,  you  know." 

"  The  next  time  you  come,  you  will  be  able  to  stay 
much  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  in  an  encouraging 
way.  "  You  will  have  no  more  terms,  then." 

"  No  indeed — nothing  but  to  take  my  degree." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  then  ?  You  said  the  other 
day  that  you  thought  seriously  of  going  into  the 
church." 

"  Oh  mamma,"  interrupted  Nellie  suddenly  looking 
up,  "  fancy  Mr.  Short  in  a  black  gown,  preaching  like 
Mr.  Ambrose  !  How  perfectly  ridiculous  he  would 
look!" 

"  Nellie — Nellie  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  do  not 
talk  nonsense.  It  is  very  rude  to  say  Mr.  Short  would 
look  ridiculous." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  mamma,"  returned  Nellie, 
blushing  scarlet  and  pouting  her  lips,  "  only  it  would 
be  very  funny,  wouldn't  it  ? " 

"I  daresay  it  would,"  said  John,  relieved  by  the 
interruption.  "  I  wish  you  would  advise  me  what  to 
do,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  added  in  a  confidential  tone. 

"  I  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  and  then  laughed.  "  How 
should  I  be  able  to  advise  you  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  you  could,"  said  John,  insisting.  "  You 
have  such  wonderfully  good  judgment " 

"Have  I?     I  did  not  know  it.     But,  teU  me,  if 


x.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         159 

you  come  out  very  high  are  you  not  sure  of  getting  a 
fellowship  ? " 

"  It  is  likely,"  answered  John  indifferently.  "  But 
I  should  have  to  give  it  up  if  I  married — " 

"Surely,  Mr.  Short,"  cried  Mrs.  Goddard,  with  a 
laugh  that  cut  him  to  the  quick,  "  you  do  not  think  of 
marrying  for  many  years  to  come  ?  " 

"  Oh — I  don't  know,"  he  said,  blushing  violently, 
"  why  should  not  I  ? " 

"  In  the  first  place,  a  man  should  never  marry  until 
he  is  at  least  five  and  twenty  years  old,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard,  calmly. 

"  "Well — I  may  be  as  old  as  that  before  I  get  the 
fellowship." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay.  But  even  then,  why  should  you 
want  to  resign  a  handsome  independence  as  soon  as 
you  have  got  it  ?  Is  there  anything  else  so  good 
within  your  reach  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  church,  of  course,"  said  John.  "  But 
Miss  Nellie  seems  to  think  that  ridiculous " 

"  Never  mind  Nellie,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  Seriously,  Mr.  Short,  do  you  approve  of  entering  the 
church  merely  as  a  profession,  a  means  of  earning 
money  ? " 

"Well — no — I  did  not  put  it  in  that  way.  But 
many  people  do." 

"That  does  not  prove  that  it  is  either  wise  or 
decent,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  If  you  felt  impelled  to 
take  orders  from  other  motives,  it  would  be  different. 
As  I  understand  you,  you  are  choosing  a  profession  for 
the  sake  of  becoming  independent." 

"  Certainly,"  said  John. 

"Well,  then,  there  is  nothing  better  for  you  to  do 
than  to  get  a  fellowship  and  hold  it  as  long  as  you  can, 


160  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

and  during  that  time  you  can  make  up  your  mind." 
She  spoke  with  conviction,  and  the  plan  seemed  good. 
"  But  I  cannot  imagine,"  she  continued,  "  why  you 
should  ask  my  advice." 

"  And  not  to  marry  ? "  inquired  John  nervously. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that  when  you 
are  thirty — even  five  and  thirty  is  not  too  late." 

"  Dear  me ! "  exclaimed  John,  "  I  think  that  is 
much  too  old  ?  " 

"  Do  you  call  me  old  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Goddard 
serenely.  "  I  was  thirty-one  on  my  last  birthday." 

For  the  twentieth  time,  John  felt  himself  growing 
uncomfortably  hot.  Not  only  had  he  said  an  uncon 
scionably  stupid  thing,  but  Mrs.  Goddard,  after  advising 
him  not  to  marry  for  ten  years,  had  almost  hinted  that 
she  might  meanwhile  be  married  herself.  What  else 
could  she  mean  by  the  remark  ?  But  John  was 
hardly  a  responsible  being  on  that  day.  His  views  of 
life  and  his  understanding  were  equally  disturbed. 

"  No  indeed,"  he  protested  on  hearing  her  confession 
of  age.  "No  indeed — why,  you  are  the  youngest 
person  I  ever  saw,  of  course.  But  with  men — it  is 
quite  different." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  always  thought  women  were  supposed 
to  grow  old  faster  than  men.  That  is  the  reason  why 
women  always  marry  men  so  much  older  than  them 
selves." 

"  Oh — in  that  case — I  have  nothing  more  to  say," 
replied  John  in  very  indistinct  tones.  The  per 
spiration  was  standing  upon  his  forehead ;  the  room 
swam  with  him  and  he  felt  a  terrible,  prickly  sen 
sation  all  over  his  body. 

"  Mamma,  shan't  I  open  the  door  ?  Mr.  Short  is 
so  very  hot,"  said  Nellie  looking  at  him  in  some 


X.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.         161 

astonishment.  At  that  moment  John  felt  as  though 
he  could  have  eaten  little  Nellie,  long  legs,  ringlets  and 
all,  with  infinite  satisfaction.  He  rose  suddenly  to 
his  feet. 

"  The  fact  is — it  is  late — I  must  really  be  saying 
good-bye,"  he  stammered. 

"  Must  you  ? "  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  suspecting  that 
something  was  the  matter.  "Well,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  say  good-bye.  But  you  will  be  coming  back  soon, 
will  you  not  ? " 

"Yes — I  don't  know — perhaps  I  shall  not  come 
back  at  all.  Good-bye — Mrs.  Goddard — good-bye, 
Miss  Nellie." 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Short,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  look 
ing  at  him  with  some  anxiety.  "  You  are  not  ill  ? 
What  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  Oh  dear  no,  nothing,"  answered  John  with  an  un 
natural  laugh.  "  No  thank  you — good-bye." 

He  managed  to  get  out  of  the  door  and  rushed 
down  to  the  road.  The  cold  air  steadied  his  nerves. 
He  felt  better.  With  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling, 
he  began  to  utter  inward  imprecations  against  his  folly, 
against  the  house  he  had  just  left,  against  everybody 
and  everything  in  general,  not  forgetting  poor  little 
Nellie. 

"If  ever  I  cross  that  threshold  again — "  he 
muttered  with  tragic  emphasis.  His  face  was  still 
red,  and  he  swung  his  stick  ferociously  as  he  strode 
towards  the  vicarage.  Several  little  boys  in  ragged 
smock-frocks  saw  him  and  thought  he  had  had  some 
beer,  even  as  their  own  fathers,  and  made  vulgar 
gestures  when  his  back  was  turned. 

So  poor  John  packed  his  portmanteau  and  left  the 
vicarage  early  on  the  following  morning.  He  sent  an 

M 


162  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

excuse  to  Mr.  Juxon  explaining  that  the  urgency  of 
his  work  called  him  back  sooner  than  he  had  expected, 
and  when  the  train  moved  fairly  off  towards  Cambridge 
he  felt  that  in  being  spared  the  ordeal  of  shaking 
hands  with  his  rival  he  had  at  least  escaped  some  of 
the  bitterness  of  his  fate ;  as  he  rolled  along  he 
thought  very  sadly  of  all  that  had  happened  in  that 
short  time  which  was  to  have  been  so  gay  and  which 
had  come  to  such  a  miserable  end. 

Eeflecting  calmly  upon  his  last  interview  with  Mrs. 
Goddard,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  memory 
failed  him.  He  could  not  recall  anything  which  could 
satisfactorily  account  for  the  terrible  disappointment 
and  distress  he  had  felt.  She  had  only  said  that  she 
was  thirty-one  years  old,  precisely  as  the  vicar  had 
stated  on  the  previous  evening,  and  she  had  advised 
him  not  to  marry  for  some  years  to  come.  But  she 
had  laughed,  and  his  feelings  had  been  deeply  wounded 
— he  could  not  tell  precisely  at  what  point  in  the 
conversation,  but  he  was  quite  certain  that  she  had 
laughed,  and  oh !  that  terrible  Nellie !  It  was  very 
bitter,  and  John  felt  that  the  best  part  of  his  life  was 
lived  out.  He  went  back  to  his  books  with  a  dark  and 
melancholy  tenacity  of  purpose,  flavoured  by  a  hope 
that  he  might  come  to  some  sudden  and  awful  end  in 
the  course  of  the  next  fortnight,  thereby  causing  untold 
grief  and  consternation  to  the  hard-hearted  woman  he 
had  loved.  But  before  the  fortnight  had  expired  he 
found  to  his  surprise  that  he  was  intensely  interested  in 
his  work,  and  once  or  twice  he  caught  himself  wonder 
ing  how  Mrs.  Goddard  would  look  when  he  went  back  to 
Billingsfield  and  told  her  he  had  come  out  at  the  head 
of  the  classical  Tripos — though,  of  course,  he  had  no 
intention  of  going  there,  nor  of  ever  seeing  her  again. 


XI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         163 


CHAPTER   XL 

ME.  JUXON  was  relieved  to  hear  that  John  Short  had 
suddenly  gone  back  to  Cambridge.  He  had  indeed 
meant  to  like  him  from  the  first  and  had  behaved 
towards  him  with  kindness  and  hospitality ;  but  while 
ready  to  admire  his  good  qualities  and  to  take  a 
proper  amount  of  interest  in  his  approaching  contest 
for  honours,  he  had  found  him  a  troublesome  person  to 
deal  with  and,  in  his  own  words,  a  nuisance.  Matters 
had  come  to  a  climax  after  the  tea  at  the  cottage, 
when  the  squire  had  so  completely  vanquished  him, 
but  since  that  evening  the  two  had  not  met. 

The  opposition  which  John  brought  to  bear  against 
Mr.  Juxon  was  not,  however,  without  its  effect.  The 
squire  was  in  that  state  of  mind  in  which  a  little 
additional  pressure  sufficed  to  sway  his  resolutions. 
It  has  been  seen  that  he  had  for  some  time  regarded 
Mrs.  Goddard's  society  as  an  indispensable  element  in 
his  daily  life ;  he  had  been  so  much  astonished  at  dis 
covering  this  that  he  had  absented  himself  for  several 
days  and  had  finally  returned  ready  to  submit  to  his 
fate,  in  so  far  as  his  fate  required  that  he  should  see 
Mrs.  Goddard  every  day.  Shortly  afterwards  John  had 
appeared  and  by  his  persistent  attempts  to  monopolise 
Mrs.  Goddard's  conversation  had  again  caused  an  in 
terruption  in  the  squire's  habits,  which  the  latter  had 


164  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

resented  with  characteristic  firmness.  The  very  fact 
of  having  resisted  John  had  strengthened  and  given  a 
new  tone  to  Mr.  Juxon's  feelings  towards  his  tenant. 
He  began  to  watch  the  hands  of  the  clock  with  more 
impatience  than  formerly  when,  after  breakfast,  he  sat 
reading  the  papers  before  the  library  fire,  waiting  for 
the  hour  when  he  was  accustomed  to  go  down  to  the 
cottage.  His  interest  in  the  papers  decreased  as  his 
interest  in  the  time  of  day  grew  stronger,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  found  to  his  great  surprise  that 
after  reading  the  news  of  the  day  with  the  greatest 
care,  he  was  often  quite  unable  to  remember  a  word  of 
what  he  had  read.  Then,  at  first,  he  would  be  angry 
with  himself  and  would  impose  upon  himself  the  task 
of  reading  the  paper  again  before  going  to  the  cottage. 
But  very  soon  he  found  that  he  had  to  read  it  twice 
almost  every  day,  and  this  seemed  such  an  unreasonable 
waste  of  time  that  he  gave  it  up,  and  fell  into  very 
unsystematic  habits. 

For  some  days,  as  though  by  mutual  consent, 
neither  Mrs.  Goddard  nor  the  squire  spoke  of  John 
Short.  The  squire  was  glad  he  was  gone  and  hoped 
that  he  would  not  come  back,  but  was  too  kind- 
hearted  to  say  so ;  Mrs.  Goddard  instinctively  under 
stood  Mr.  Juxon's  state  of  mind  and  did  not  disturb 
his  equanimity  by  broaching  an  unpleasant  subject. 
Several  days  passed  by  after  John  had  gone  and  he 
would  certainly  not  have  been  flattered  had  he  known 
that  during  that  time  two,  out  of  the  four  persons 
he  had  met  so  often  in  his  short  holiday,  had  never  so 
much  as  mentioned  him. 

One  afternoon  in  January  the  squire  found  himself 
alone  with  Mrs.  Goddard.  It  was  a  great  exception, 
and  she  herself  doubted  whether  she  were  wise  to 


XI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          165 

receive  him  when  she  had  not  Nellie  with  her.  Nellie 
had  gone  to  the  vicarage  to  help  Mrs.  Ambrose  with 
some  work  she  had  in  hand  for  her  poor  people,  but 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  a  slight  headache  and  had  stayed  at 
home  in  consequence.  The  weather  was  very  bad ; 
heavy  clouds  were  driving  overhead  and  the  north-east 
wind  howled  and  screamed  through  the  leafless  oaks 
of  the  park,  driving  a  fine  sleet  against  the  cottage 
windows  and  making  the  dead  creepers  rattle  against 
the  wall.  It  was  a  bitter  January  day,  and  Mrs. 
Goddard  felt  how  pleasant  a  thing  it  was  to  stay  at 
home  with  a  book  beside  her  blazing  fire.  She  was 
all  alone,  and  Nellie  would  not  be  back  before  four 
o'clock.  Suddenly  a  well-known  step  echoed  upon  the 
slate  flags  without  and  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell. 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  hardly  time  to  think  what  she 
should  do,  as  she  laid  her  book  upon  her  knee  and 
looked  nervously  over  her  shoulder  towards  the  door. 
It  was  awkward,  she  thought,  but  it  could  not  be 
helped.  In  such  weather  it  seemed  absurd  to  send 
the  squire  away  because  her  little  girl  was  not  with 
her.  He  had  come  all  the  way  down  from  the  Hall 
to  spend  this  dreary  afternoon  at  the  cottage — she 
could  not  send  him  away.  There  were  sounds  in  the 
passage  as  of  some  one  depositing  a  waterproof  coat 
and  an  umbrella,  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Juxon 
appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  banishing  her 
scruples  as  soon  as  she  saw  him.  "  I  am  all  alone," 
she  added  rather  apologetically.  The  squire,  who  was 
a  simple  man  in  many  ways,  understood  the  remark 
and  felt  slightly  embarrassed. 

"  Is  Miss  Nellie  out  ? "  he  asked,  coming  forward 
and  taking  Mrs.  Goddard's  hand.  He  had  not  yet 


166  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

reached  the  point  of  calling  the  child  plain  "  Nellie ; " 
he  would  have  thought  it  an  undue  familiarity. 

"She  is  gone  to  the  vicarage,"  answered  Mrs. 
Goddard.  "  What  a  dreadful  day !  You  must  be 
nearly  frozen.  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?  " 

"No  thanks — no,  you  are  very  kind.  I  have  had 
a  good  walk ;  I  am  not  cold — never  am.  As  you  say, 
in  such  weather  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
come  in.  This  is  a  capital  day  to  test  that  India-rubber 
tubing  we  have  put  round  your  windows.  Excuse 
me — I  will  just  look  and  see  if  the  air  comes  through." 

Mr.  Juxon  carefully  examined  the  windows  of  the 
sitting-room  and  then  returned  to  his  seat. 

"  It  is  quite  air-tight,  I  think,"  he  said  with  some 
satisfaction,  as  he  smoothed  his  hair  with  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  quite,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  It  was  so  very 
good  of  you." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  the  squire  cheerily. 
"A  landlord's  chief  pre-occupation  ought  to  be  the 
comfort  of  his  tenants  and  his  next  thought  should 
be  to  keep  his  houses  in  repair.  I  never  owned  any 
houses  before,  so  I  have  detei  mined  to  start  with  good 
principles." 

"  I  am  sure  you  succeed.     You  walked  down  ? " 

"Always  walk,  in  any  weather.  It  is  much  less 
trouble  and  much  cheaper.  Besides,  I  like  it." 

"  The  best  of  all  reasons.  Then  you  will  not  have 
any  tea  ?  I  almost  wish  you  would,  because  I  want 
some  myself." 

"  Oh  of  course — in  that  case  I  shall  be  delighted. 
Shall  I  ring?" 

He  rang  and  Martha  brought  the  tea.  Some  time 
was  consumed  in  the  preparations  which  Mr.  Juxon 
watched  with  interest  as  though  he  had  never  seen  tea 


XI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          167 

made  before.  Everything  that  Mrs.  Goddard  did  in 
terested  him. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  it  is,"  she  said  at  last,  "  but 
weather  like  this  is  delightful  when  one  is  safe  at 
home.  I  suppose  it  is  the  contrast " 

"  Yes  indeed.  It  is  like  the  watch  below  in  dirty 
weather." 

"  Excuse  me — I  don't  quite  understand " 

"At  sea,"  explained  the  squire.  "There  is  no 
luxury  like  being  below  when  the  decks  are  wet  and 
there  is  heavy  weather  about." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  Have 
you  been  at  sea  much,  Mr.  Juxon  ? " 

"  Thirty  years,"  returned  the  squire  laconically. 
Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been  a  sailor  all 
your  life  ? " 

"  Does  that  surprise  you  ?  I  have  been  a  sailor 
since  I  was  twelve  years  old.  But  I  got  very  tired 
of  it.  It  is  a  hard  life." 

"  Were  you  in  the  navy,  Mr.  Juxon  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Goddard  eagerly,  feeling  that  she  was  at  last  upon  the 
track  of  some  information  in  regard  to  his  past  life. 

"Yes — I  was  in  the  navy,"  answered  the  squire, 
slowly.  "  And  then  I  was  at  college,  and  then  in  the 
navy  again.  At  last  I  entered  the  merchant  service 
and  commanded  my  own  ships  for  nearly  twenty 
years." 

"  How  very  extraordinary !  Why  then,  you  must 
have  been  everywhere." 

"Very  nearly.  But  I  would  much  rather  be  in 
Billingsfield." 

"You  never  told  me,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  almost 
reproachfully.  "What  a  change  it  must  have  been 


168         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 

for  you,  from  the  sea  to  the  life  of  a  country  gentle 
man  ! " 

"  It  is  what  I  always  wanted." 

"  But  you  do  not  seem  at  all  like  the  sea  captains 
one  hears  about " 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  replied  the  squire  thought 
fully.  "There  are  a  great  many  different  classes  of 
sea  captains.  I  always  had  a  taste  for  books.  A 
man  can  read  a  great  deal  on  a  long  voyage.  I  have 
sometimes  been  at  sea  for  more  than  two  years  at  a 
time.  Besides,  I  had  a  fairly  good  education  and — 
well,  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  a  gentleman  to 
begin  with  and  was  more  than  ten  years  in  the  Eoyal 
Navy.  All  that  makes  a  great  difference.  Have  you 
ever  made  a  long  voyage,  Mrs.  Goddard  ? " 

"  I  have  crossed  the  channel,"  said  she.  "  But  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  something  more  about  your 
life." 

"Oh  no — it  is  very  dull,  all  that.  You  always 
make  me  talk  about  myself,"  said  the  squire  in  a 
tone  of  protestation. 

"  It  is  very  interesting." 

"  But — could  not  we  vary  the  conversation  by 
talking  about  you  a  little,"  suggested  Mr.  Juxon. 

"  Oh  no  !  Please — "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard 
rather  nervously.  She  grew  pale  and  busied  herself 
again  with  the  tea.  "Do  tell  me  more  about  your 
voyages.  I  suppose  that  was  the  way  you  collected 
so  many  beautiful  things,  was  it  not  ? " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  the  squire,  looking 
at  her  curiously.  "  In  fact  of  course  it  was.  I  was 
a  great  deal  in  China  and  South  America  and  India, 
and  in  all  sorts  of  places  where  one  picks  up  things." 

"  And  in  Turkey,  too,  where  you  got  Stamboul  ? " 


XI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          169 

"  Yes.  He  was  so  wet  that  I  left  him  outside  to 
day.  Did  not  want  to  spoil  your  carpet." 

The  squire  had  a  way  of  turning  the  subject  when 
he  seemed  upon  the  point  of  talking  about  himself 
which  was  very  annoying  to  Mrs.  Goddard.  But  she 
had  not  entirely  recovered  her  equanimity  and  for  the 
moment  had  lost  control  of  the  squire.  Besides  she 
had  a  headache  that  day. 

"  Stamboul  does  not  get  the  benefit  of  the  contrast 
we  were  talking  about  at  first,"  she  remarked,  in  order 
to  say  something. 

"  I  could  not  possibly  bring  him  in,"  returned  the 
squire  looking  at  her  again.  "  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  God 
dard — I  don't  mean  to  be  inquisitive  you  know,  but 
— I  always  want  to  be  of  any  use." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  I  mean,  to  be  frank,  I  am  afraid  that  something 
is  giving  you  trouble.  I  have  noticed  it  for  some 
time.  You  know,  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  if  I  can  help 
you  in  any  way — you  have  only  to  say  the  word." 

Again  she  looked  at  him.  She  did  not  know  why 
it  was  so,  but  the  genuinely  friendly  tone  in  which 
he  made  the  offer  touched  her.  She  was  surprised, 
however;  she  could  not  understand  why  he  should 
think  she  was  in  trouble,  and  indeed  she  was  in  no 
greater  distress  than  she  had  suffered  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  last  three  years. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Juxon.  But  there  is 
nothing  the  matter — I  have  a  headache." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  beg  your  pardon."  He 
looked  away  and  seemed  embarrassed. 

"  You  have  done  too  much  already,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard,  fearing  that  she  had  not  sufficiently  acknow 
ledged  his  offer  of  assistance. 


170  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I  cannot  do  too  much.  That  is  impossible,"  he 
said  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "  I  have  very  few 
friends,  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  I  like  to  think  that  you 
are  one  of  the  best  of  them." 

"  I  am  sure — I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Mr.  Juxon," 
she  answered,  somewhat  startled  by  the  directness  of 
his  speech.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  always  been  most 
kind,  and  I  hope  you  do  not  think  me  ungrateful." 

"  I  ?  You  ?  No — dear  me,  please  never  mention 
it !  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Goddard — "  he  stopped  and 
smoothed  his  hair.  "What  particularly  disagreeable 
weather,"  he  remarked  irrelevantly,  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  driving  sleet. 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  down  and  slowly  stirred  her 
tea.  She  was  pale  and  her  hand  trembled  a  little, 
but  no  one  could  have  guessed  that  she  was  suffering 
any  strong  emotion.  Mr.  Juxon  looked  towards  the 
window,  and  the  gray  light  of  the  winter's  afternoon 
fell  coldly  upon  his  square  sunburned  face  and  care 
fully  trimmed  beard.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  still  looking  away  from  his  companion,  he 
continued  in  a  less  hesitating  tone. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  of 
late,"  he  said,  "  and  it  has  struck  me  that  your  friend 
ship  has  grown  to  be  the  most  important  thing  in  my 
life."  He  paused  again  and  turned  his  hat  round 
upon  his  knee.  Still  Mrs.  Goddard  said  nothing,  and 
as  he  did  not  look  at  her  he  did  not  perceive  that  she 
was  unnaturally  agitated. 

"  I  have  told  you  what  my  life  has  been,"  he  con 
tinued  presently.  "  I  have  been  a  sailor.  I  made  a 
little  money.  I  finally  inherited  my  uncle's  estate 
here.  I  will  tell  you  anything  else  you  would  like  to 
ask — I  don't  think  I  ever  did  anything  to  conceal.  I 


xi.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         171 

am  forty-two  years  old.  I  have  about  five  thousand  a 
year  and  I  am  naturally  economical.  I  would  like  to 
make  you  a  proposal — a  very  respectful  proposal, 
Mrs.  Goddard " 

Mrs.  Goddard  uttered  a  faint  exclamation  of  sur 
prise  and  fell  back  in  her  chair,  staring  with  wide 
eyes  at  the  squire,  her  cheeks  very  pale  and  her  lips 
white.  He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  what  he  was 
saying  to  notice  the  short  smothered  ejaculation,  and 
he  was  too  much  embarrassed  to  look  at  her. 

"  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling  slightly, 
"  will  you  marry  me  ? " 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  result  of  his  speech. 
He  had  pondered  it  for  some  time  and  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  best  to  say  as  little  as 
possible  and  to  say  it  plainly.  It  was  an  honourable 
proposal  of  marriage  from  a  man  in  middle  life  to  a 
lady  he  had  known  and  respected  for  many  months ; 
there  was  very  little  romance  about  it;  he  did  not 
intend  that  there  should  be  any.  As  soon  as  he  had 
spoken  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  to  her  for  his 
answer.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  clasped  her  small  white 
hands  over  her  face  and  had  turned  her  head  away 
from  him  against  the  cushion  of  the  high  backed  chair. 
The  squire  felt  very  uncomfortable  in  the  dead  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  sleet  driving  against  the  window 
panes  with  a  hissing,  rattling  sound,  and  by  the  singing 
of  the  tea-kettle.  For  some  seconds,  which  to  Juxon 
seemed  like  an  eternity,  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  move. 
At  last  she  suddenly  dropped  her  hands  and  looked 
into  the  squire's  eyes.  He  was  startled  by  the  ashen 
hue  of  her  face. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  said,  shortly,  in  broken  tones. 
But  the  squire  was  prepared  for  some  difficulties. 


172  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

"I  do  not  see  the  impossibility,"  he  said  quite 
calmly.  "  Of  course,  I  would  not  press  you  for  an 
answer,  my  dear  Mrs.  Goddard.  I  am  afraid  I  have 
been  very  abrupt,  but  I  will  go  away,  I  will  leave  you 
to  consider " 

"  Oh  no,  no  ! "  cried  the  poor  lady  in  great  distress. 
"  It  is  quite  impossible — I  assure  you  it  is  quite,  quite 
impossible ! " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  who  saw  that  she 
was  deeply  moved,  but  was  loath  to  abandon  the  field 
without  a  further  struggle.  "  I  am  not  a  very  young 
man,  it  is  true — but  I  am  not  a  very  old  one  either. 
You,  my  dear  Mrs.  Goddard,  have  been  a  widow  for 
some  years " 

"  I  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  wild  hysterical 
laugh.  "  I !  Oh  God  of  mercy !  I  wish  I  were." 
Again  she  buried  her  face  in  the  cushion.  Her 
bosom  heaved  violently. 

The  squire  started  as  though  he  had  been  struck, 
and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  brown  face  so  that  the 
great  veins  on  his  temples  stood  out  like  cords. 

"Did  I — did  I  understand  you  to  say  that — your 
husband  is  living  ? "  he  asked  in  a  strong,  loud  voice, 
ringing  with  emotion. 

Mrs.  Goddard  moved  a  little  and  seemed  to  make  a 
great  effort  to  speak. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  very  faintly.  The  squire  rose  to 
his  feet  and  paced  the  room  in  terrible  agitation. 

"  But  where  ?  "  he  asked,  stopping  suddenly  in  his 
walk.  "  Mrs.  Goddard,  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  ask 
where  he  is — why  you  have  never  spoken  of  him  ? " 

By  a  supreme  effort  the  unfortunate  lady  raised 
herself  from  her  seat  supporting  herself  upon  one 
hand,  and  faced  the  squire  with  wildly  staring  eyes. 


XI. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         173 


"  You  have  a  right  to  know,"  she  said.  "  He  is  in 
Portland — sentenced  to  twelve  years  hard  labour  for 
forgery." 

She  said  it  all,  to  the  end,  and  then  fell  hack  into 
her  chair.  But  she  did  not  hide  her  face  this  time. 
The  fair  pathetic  features  were  quite  motionless  and 
white,  without  any  expression,  and  her  hands  lay  with 
the  palms  turned  upwards  on  her  knees. 

Charles  James  Juxon  was  a  man  of  few  words,  not 
given  to  using  strong  language  on  any  occasion.  But 
he  was  completely  overcome  by  the  horror  of  the 
thing.  He  turned  icy  cold  as  he  stood  still,  rooted 
to  the  spot,  and  he  uttered  aloud  one  strong  and 
solemn  ejaculation,  more  an  invocation  than  an  oath, 
as  though  he  called  on  heaven  to  witness  the  misery 
he  looked  upon.  He  gazed  at  the  colourless,  inanimate 
face  of  the  poor  lady  and  walked  slowly  to  the  win 
dow.  There  he  stood  for  fully  five  minutes,  motionless, 
staring  out  at  the  driving  sleet. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  fainted  away,  but  it  did  not 
occur  to  the  squire  to  attempt  to  recall  her  to  her 
senses.  It  seemed  merciful  that  she  should  have 
lost  consciousness  even  for  a  moment.  Indeed  she 
needed  no  help,  for  in  a  few  minutes  she  slowly 
opened  her  eyes  and  closed  them,  then  opened  them 
again  and  saw  Mr.  Juxon's  figure  darkening  the 
window  against  the  gray  light. 

"  Mr.  Juxon,"  she  said  faintly,  "  come  here,  please." 

The  squire  started  and  turned.  Then  he  came  and 
sat  down  beside  her.  His  face  was  very  stern  and 
grave,  and  he  said  nothing. 

"  Mr.  Juxon,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  speaking  in  a 
low  voice,  but  with  far  more  calm  than  he  could 
have  expected,  "you  have  a  right  to  know  my  story. 


174  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  you  have  made  an 
honourable  offer  to  me,  you  have  said  you  were  my 
friend.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before.  If  I  had 
had  any  idea  of  what  was  passing  in  your  mind,  I 
would  have  told  you,  cost  what  it  might." 

Mr.  Juxon  gravely  bowed  his  head.  She  was  quite 
right,  he  thought.  He  had  a  right  to  know  all 
With  all  his  kind-heartedness  he  was  a  stern  man  by 
nature. 

"Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Goddard,  "you  have  every 
right  to  know.  My  husband,"  her  voice  trembled, 
"was  the  head  of  an  important  firm  in  London.  I 
was  the  only  child  of  his  partner.  Not  long  after  my 
father's  death  I  married  Mr.  Goddard.  He  was  an 
extravagant  man  of  brilliant  tastes.  I  had  a  small 
fortune  of  my  own  which  my  father  had  settled  upon 
me,  independent  of  his  share  in  the  firm.  My  guar 
dians,  of  whom  my  husband  was  one,  advised  me  to 
leave  my  father's  fortune  in  the  concern.  When  I 
came  of  age,  a  year  after  my  marriage,  I  agreed  to  do 
it.  My  husband — I  never  knew  it  till  long  afterwards 
— was  very  rash.  He  speculated  on  the  Exchange 
and  tampered  with  the  deposits  placed  in  his  hands. 
We  lived  in  great  luxury.  I  knew  nothing  of  his 
affairs.  Three  years  ago,  after  we  had  been  married 
nearly  ten  years,  the  firm  failed.  It  was  a  fraudulent 
bankruptcy.  My  husband  fled  but  was  captured  and 
brought  back.  It  appeared  that  at  the  last  moment, 
in  the  hope  of  retrieving  his  position  and  saving  the 
firm,  he  had  forged  the  name  of  one  of  his  own  clients 
for  a  large  amount.  We  had  a  country  place  at 
Putney  which  he  had  given  to  me.  I  sold  it,  with  all 
my  jewels  and  most  of  my  possessions.  I  would  have 
given  up  everything  I  possessed,  but  I  thought  of 


xi.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         175 

Nellie — poor  little  Nellie.  The  lawyers  assured  me 
that  I  ought  to  keep  my  own  little  fortune.  I  kept 
about  five  hundred  a  year.  It  is  more  than  I  need, 
but  it  seemed  very  little  then.  The  lawyer  who  con 
ducted  the  defence,  such  as  it  was,  advised  me  to  go 
abroad,  but  I  would  not.  Then  he  spoke  of  Mr.  Am 
brose,  who  had  educated  his  son,  and  gave  me  a  note 
to  him.  I  came  here  and  I  told  Mr.  Ambrose  my 
whole  story.  I  only  wanted  to  be  alone — I  thought 
I  did  right— 

Her  courage  had  sustained  her  so  far,  but  it 
had  been  a  great  effort.  Her  voice  trembled  and 
broke  and  at  last  the  tears  began  to  glisten  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Does  Nellie  know  ? "  asked  the  squire,  who  had 
sat  very  gravely  by  her  side,  but  who  was  in  reality 
deeply  moved. 

"No — she  thinks  he — that  he  is  dead,"  faltered 
Mrs.  Goddard.  Then  she  fairly  burst  into  tears  and 
sobbed  passionately,  covering  her  face  and  rocking 
herself  from  side  to  side. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  very  kindly  and 
laying  one  hand  upon  her  arm,  "  pray  try  and  calm 
yourself.  Forgive  me — I  beg  you  to  forgive  me  for 
having  caused  you  so  much  pain " 

"  Do  you  still  call  me  a  friend  ? "  sobbed  the  poor 
lady. 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  quoth  the  squire  stoutly.  And  he 
meant  it.  Mrs.  Goddard  dropped  her  hands  and 
stared  into  the  fire  through  her  falling  tears. 

"  I  think  you  behaved  very  honourably  —  very 
generously,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon,  who  did  not  know 
precisely  how  to  console  her,  and  indeed  stood  much 
in  need  of  consolation  himself.  "  Perhaps  I  had  better 


176  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

leave  you — you  are  very  much  agitated — you  must 
need  rest — would  you  not  rather  that  I  should  go  ? " 

"  Yes — it  is  better,"  said  she,  still  staring  at  the  fire. 
"  You  know  all  about  me  now,"  she  added  in  a  tone  of 
pathetic  regret.  The  squire  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  with  some  hesitation,  "that 
this — this  very  unfortunate  day  will  not  prevent  our 
being  friends — better  friends  than  before  ?  " 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  up  gratefully  through  her 
tears. 

"  How  good  you  are  ! "  she  said  softly. 

"  Not  at  all — I  am  not  at  all  good — I  only  want 
to  be  your  friend.  Good-bye — G — God  bless  you  ! " 
He  seized  her  hand  and  squeezed  it  and  then  hurried 
out  of  the  room.  A  moment  later  he  was  crossing 
the  road  with  Stamboul,  who  was  very  tired  of  wait 
ing,  bounding  before  him. 

The  squire  was  not  a  romantic  character.  He 
was  a  strong  plain  man,  who  had  seen  the  world  and 
was  used  to  most  forms  of  danger  and  to  a  good 
many  forms  of  suffering.  He  was  kind-hearted  and 
generous,  capable  of  feeling  sincere  sympathy  for 
others,  and  under  certain  circumstances  of  being 
deeply  wounded  himself.  He  had  indeed  a  far  more 
refined  nature  than  he  himself  suspected  and  on  this 
memorable  day  he  had  experienced  more  emotions 
than  he  remembered  to  have  felt  in  the  course  of 
many  years. 

After  long  debate  and  after  much  searching  in 
quiry  into  his  own  motives  he  had  determined  to 
offer  himself  to  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  he  had  accord 
ingly  done  so  in  his  own  straightforward  manner.  It 
had  seemed  a  very  important  action  in  his  life,  a  very 
solemn  step,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  acute 


XL          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         177 

sense  of  disappointment  which  he  felt  when  Mrs. 
Goddard  first  said  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  accept 
him,  still  less  had  he  anticipated  the  extraordinary 
story  which  she  had  told  him,  in  explanation  of  her 
refusal.  His  ideas  were  completely  upset.  That  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  not  a  widow  after  all,  was  almost  as 
astounding  as  that  she  should  prove  to  be  the  wife  of 
a  felon.  But  Mr.  Juxon  was  no  less  persuaded  that 
she  herself  was  a  perfectly  good  and  noble  woman, 
than  he  had  been  before.  He  felt  that  he  would  like  to 
cut  the  throat  of  the  villain  himself;  but  he  resolved 
that  he  would  more  than  ever  try  to  be  a  good  friend 
to  Mrs.  Goddard. 

He  walked  slowly  through  the  storm  towards  his 
house,  his  broad  figure  facing  the  wind  and  sleet  with 
as  much  ease  as  a  steamer  forging  against  a  head  sea. 
He  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  weather ;  but  Stam- 
boul  slunk  along  at  his  heels,  shielding  himself  from 
the  driving  wet  snow  behind  his  master's  sturdy  legs. 
The  squire  was  very  much  disturbed.  The  sight  of 
his  own  solemn  butler  affected  him  strangely.  He 
stared  about  the  library  in  a  vacant  way,  as  though 
he  had  never  seen  the  place  before.  The  realisation 
of  his  own  calm  and  luxurious  life  seemed  unnatural, 
and  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  poor  weeping 
woman  he  had  just  left.  She,  too,  had  enjoyed  all 
this,  and  more  also.  She  had  probably  been  richer 
than  he.  And  now  she  was  living  on  five  hundred  a 
year  in  one  of  his  own  cottages,  hiding  her  shame  in 
desolate  Billingsfield,  the  shame  of  her  husband,  the 
forger. 

It  was  such  a  hopeless  position,  the  squire  thought. 
No  one  could  help  her,  no  one  could  do  anything  for 
her.  For  many  weeks,  revolving  the  situation  in  his 

N 


178         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP, 

mind,  he  had  amused  himself  by  thinking  how  she 
would  look  when  she  should  be  mistress  of  the  Hall, 
and  wondering  whether  little  Nellie  would  call  him 
"father,"  or  merely  "Mr.  Juxon."  And  now,  she 
turned  out  to  be  the  wife  of  a  forger,  sentenced  to  hard 
labour  in  a  convict  prison,  for  twelve  years.  For  twelve 
years — nearly  three  must  have  elapsed  already.  In 
nine  years  more  Goddard  would  be  out  again.  Would 
he  claim  his  wife  ?  Of  course — he  would  come  back 
to  her  for  support.  And  poor  little  Nellie  thought 
he  was  dead !  It  would  be  a  terrible  day  when  she 
had  to  be  told.  If  he  only  would  die  in  prison  ! — 
but  men  sentenced  to  hard  labour  rarely  die.  They 
are  well  cared  for.  It  is  a  healthy  life.  He  would 
certainly  live  through  it  and  come  back  to  claim  his 
wife.  Poor  Mrs.  Goddard !  her  troubles  were  not 
ended  yet,  though  the  State  had  provided  her  with  a 
respite  of  twelve  years. 

The  squire  sat  long  in  his  easy-chair  in  the  great 
library,  and  forgot  to  dress  for  dinner — he  always 
dressed,  even  though  he  was  quite  alone.  But  the 
solemn  face  of  his  butler  betrayed  neither  emotion  nor 
surprise  when  the  master  of  the  Hall  walked  into  the 
dining-room  in  his  knickerbockers. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.         179 


CHAPTEE    XII. 

WHEN  Nellie  came  home  from  the  vicarage  she  found 
her  mother  looking  very  ill.  There  were  dark  rings 
under  her  eyes,  and  her  features  were  drawn  and  tear- 
stained,  while  the  beautiful  waves  of  her  brown  hair 
had  lost  their  habitual  neatness  and  symmetry.  The 
child  noticed  these  things,  with  a  child's  quickness, 
but  explained  them  on  the  ground  that  her  mother's 
headache  was  probably  much  worse.  Mrs.  Goddard 
accepted  the  explanation  and  on  the  following  day 
Nellie  had  forgotten  all  about  it ;  but  her  mother  re 
membered  it  long,  and  it  was  many  days  before  she 
recovered  entirely  from  the  shock  of  her  interview 
with  the  squire.  The  latter  did  not  come  to  see  her 
as  usual,  but  on  the  morning  after  his  visit  he  sent 
her  down  a  package  of  books  and  some  orchids  from 
his  hothouses.  He  thought  it  best  to  leave  her  to  her 
self  for  a  little  while ;  the  very  sight  of  him,  he 
argued,  would  be  painful  to  her,  and  any  meeting 
with  her  would  be  painful  to  himself.  He  did  not  go 
out  of  the  house,  but  spent  the  whole  day  in  his 
library  among  his  books,  not  indeed  reading,  but  pre 
tending  to  himself  that  he  was  very  busy.  Being  a 
strong  and  sensible  man  he  did  not  waste  time  in 
bemoaning  his  sorrows,  but  he  thought  about  them 
long  and  earnestly.  The  more  he  thought,  the  more 


180  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

it  appeared  to  him  that  Mrs.  Goddard  was  the  person 
who  deserved  pity  rather  than  he  himself.  His  mind 
dwelt  on  the  terrors  of  her  position  in  case  her  hus 
band  should  return  and  claim  his  wife  and  daughter 
when  the  twelve  years  were  over,  and  he  thought  with 
horror  of  Nellie's  humiliation,  if  at  the  age  of  twenty 
she  should  discover  that  her  father  during  all  these 
years  had  not  been  honourably  dead  and  buried,  but 
had  been  suffering  the  punishment  of  a  felon  in 
Portland.  That  the  only  attempt  he  had  ever  made 
to  enter  the  matrimonial  state  should  have  been  so 
singularly  unfortunate  was  indeed  a  matter  which 
caused  him  sincere  sorrow ;  he  had  thought  too  often 
of  being  married  to  Mary  Goddard  to  be  able  to  give 
up  the  idea  without  a  sigh.  But  it  is  due  to  him  to 
say  that  in  the  midst  of  his  own  disappointment  he 
thought  much  more  of  her  sorrows  than  of  his  own,  a 
state  of  mind  most  probably  due  to  his  temperament. 

He  saw  also  how  impossible  it  was  to  console  Mrs. 
Goddard  or  even  to  alleviate  the  distress  of  mind 
which  she  must  constantly  feel.  Her  destiny  was 
accomplished  in  part,  and  the  remainder  seemed  absol 
utely  inevitable.  No  one  could  prevent  her  husband 
from  leaving  his  prison  when  his  crime  was  expiated  ; 
and  no  one  could  then  prevent  him  from  joining  his 
wife  and  ending  his  life  under  her  roof.  At  least  so 
it  seemed.  Endless  complications  would  follow.  Mrs. 
Goddard  would  certainly  have  to  leave  Billingsfield — 
no  one  could  expect  the  Ambroses  or  the  squire  him 
self  to  associate  with  a  convict  forger.  Mr.  Juxon 
vaguely  wondered  whether  he  should  live  another  nine 
years  to  see  the  end  of  all  this,  and  he  inwardly  de 
termined  to  go  to  sea  again  rather  than  to  witness 
such  misery.  He  could  not  see,  no  one  could  see 


xii.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         181 

how  things  could  possibly  turn  out  in  any  other  way. 
It  would  have  been  some  comfort  to  have  gone  to  the 
vicar,  and  to  have  discussed  with  him  the  possibilities 
of  Mrs.  Goddard's  future.  The  vicar  was  a  man 
after  his  own  heart,  honest,  reliable,  charitable  and 
brave ;  but  Mr.  Juxon  thought  that  it  would  not  be 
quite  loyal  towards  Mrs.  Goddard  if  he  let  any  one  else 
know  that  he  was  acquainted  with  her  story. 

For  two  days  he  stayed  at  home  and  then  he  went 
to  see  her.  To  his  surprise  she  received  him  very 
quietly,  much  as  she  usually  did,  without  betraying 
any  emotion ;  whereupon  he  wished  that  he  had  not 
allowed  two  days  to  pass  without  making  his  usual 
visit.  Mrs.  Goddard  almost  wished  so  too.  She  had 
been  so  much  accustomed  to  regard  the  squire  as  a 
friend,  and  she  had  so  long  been  used  to  the  thought 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  knew  of  her  past  trouble, 
that  the  fact  of  the  squire  becoming  acquainted  with 
her  history  seemed  to  her  less  important,  now  that  it 
was  accomplished,  than  it  seemed  to  the  squire  him 
self.  She  had  long  thought  of  telling  him  all;  she 
had  seriously  contemplated  doing  so  when  he  first 
came  to  Billingsfield,  and  now  at  last  the  thing  was 
done.  She  was  glad  of  it.  She  was  no  longer  in  a 
false  position  ;  he  could  never  again  think  of  marrying 
her ;  they  could  henceforth  meet  as  friends,  since  he 
was  so  magnanimous  as  to  allow  their  friendship  to 
exist.  Her  pride  had  suffered  so  terribly  in  the  be 
ginning  that  it  was  past  suffering  now.  She  felt  that 
she  was  in  the  position  of  a  suppliant  asking  only  for 
a  quiet  resting-place  for  herself  and  her  daughter,  and 
she  was  grateful  to  the  people  who  gave  her  what  she 
asked,  feeling  that  she  had  fallen  among  good  Samari 
tans,  whereas  in  merry  England  it  would  have  been 


182  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

easy  for  her  to  have  fallen  among  priests  and 
Pharisees. 

So  it  came  about  that  in  a  few  days  her  relations 
with  Mr.  Juxon  were  re-established  upon  a  new  basis, 
but  more  firmly  and  satisfactorily  than  before,  seeing 
that  now  there  was  no  possibility  of  mistake.  And 
for  a  long  time  it  seemed  as  though  matters  would 
go  on  as  before.  Neither  Mrs.  Goddard  nor  the  squire 
ever  referred  to  the  interview  on  that  memorable 
stormy  afternoon,  and  so  far  as  the  squire  could  judge 
his  life  and  hers  might  go  on  with  perfect  tranquillity 
until  it  should  please  the  powers  that  be  and  the 
governor  of  Portland  to  set  Mr.  Walter  Goddard  at 
liberty.  Heaven  only  knew  what  would  happen  then, 
but  it  was  provided  that  there  should  be  plenty  of 
time  to  prepare  for  anything  which  might  ensue.  The 
point  upon  which  Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  spoken  plainly 
was  that  which  concerned  her  probable  treatment  of 
her  husband  after  his  liberation.  She  had  passed  that 
question  over  in  silence.  She  had  probably  never 
dared  to  decide.  Most  probably  she  would  at  the  last 
minute  seek  some  safer  retreat  than  Billingsfield  and 
make  up  her  mind  to  hide  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 
But  Mr.  Juxon  had  heard  of  women  who  had  carried 
charity  as  far  as  to  receive  back  their  husbands  under 
even  worse  circumstances ;  women  were  soft-hearted 
creatures,  reflected  the  squire,  and  capable  of  any 
thing. 

Few  people  in  such  a  situation  could  have  acted 
consistently  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  But 
Mr.  Juxon's  extremely  reticent  nature  found  it  easy 
to  bury  other  people's  important  secrets  at  least  as 
deeply  as  he  buried  the  harmless  details  of  his  own 
honest  life.  Not  a  hair  of  his  smooth  head  was 


XII.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          183 

ruffled,  not  a  line  of  his  square  manly  face  was  dis 
turbed.  He  looked  and  acted  precisely  as  he  had 
looked  and  acted  before.  His  butler  remarked  that 
he  ate  a  little  less  heartily  of  late,  and  that  on  one 
evening,  as  has  been  recorded,  the  squire  forgot  to 
dress  for  dinner.  But  the  butler  in  his  day  had  seen 
greater  eccentricities  than  these ;  he  had  the  greatest 
admiration  for  Mr.  Juxon  and  was  not  inclined  to 
cavil  at  small  things.  A  real  gentleman,  of  the  good 
sort,  who  dressed  for  dinner  when  he  was  alone,  who 
never  took  too  much  wine,  who  never  bullied  the 
servants  nor  quarrelled  unjustly  with  the  bills,  was, 
as  the  butler  expressed  it,  "  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  on 
no  account."  The  place  was  a  little  dull,  but  the 
functionary  was  well  stricken  in  years  and  did  not 
like  hard  work.  Mr.  Juxon  seemed  to  be  conscious 
that  as  he  never  had  visitors  at  the  Hall  and  as  there 
were  consequently  no  "  tips,"  his  staff  was  entitled 
to  an  occasional  fee,  which  he  presented  always  with 
great  regularity,  and  which  had  the  desired  effect. 
He  was  a  generous  man  as  well  as  a  just. 

The  traffic  in  roses  and  orchids  and  new  books  con 
tinued  as  usual  between  the  Hall  and  the  cottage,  and 
for  many  weeks  nothing  extraordinary  occurred.  Mrs. 
Ambrose  and  Mrs.  Goddard  met  frequently,  and  the 
only  difference  to  be  observed  in  the  manner  of  the 
former  was  that  she  mentioned  John  Short  very  often, 
and  every  time  she  mentioned  him  she  fixed  her  gray 
eyes  sternly  upon  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  however  did  not 
notice  the  scrutiny,  or,  if  she  did,  was  not  in  the  least 
disturbed  by  it.  For  a  long  time  Mrs.  Ambrose  en 
tertained  a  feeble  intention  of  addressing  Mrs.  Goddard 
directly  upon  the  subject  of  John's  affections,  but  the 
longer  she  put  off  doing  so,  the  harder  it  seemed  to  do 


184  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

it.  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  great  faith  in  the  sternness  of 
her  eye  under  certain  circumstances,  and  seeing  that 
Mrs.  Goddard  never  winced,  she  gradually  fell  into 
the  belief  that  John  had  been  the  more  to  blame,  if 
there  was  any  blame  in  the  matter.  She  had  indeed 
succeeded  in  the  first  instance,  by  methods  of  her  own 
which  have  been  heretofore  detailed,  in  extracting  a 
sort  of  reluctant  admission  from  her  husband;  but 
since  that  day  he  had  proved  obdurate  to  all  entreaty. 
Once  only  he  had  said  with  considerable  impatience 
that  John  was  a  very  silly  boy,  and  was  much  better 
engaged  with  his  books  at  college  than  in  running 
after  Mrs.  Goddard.  That  was  all,  and  gradually  as 
the  regular  and  methodical  life  at  the  vicarage  effaced 
the  memory  of  the  doings  at  Christmas  time,  the 
good  Mrs.  Ambrose  forgot  that  anything  unpleasant 
had  ever  occurred.  There  was  no  disturbance  of  the 
existing  relations  and  everything  went  on  as  before  for 
many  weeks.  The  February  thaw  set  in  early  and  the 
March  winds  began  to  blow  before  February  was  fairly 
out.  Nat  Barker  the  octogenarian  cripple,  who  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  weather  prophet,  was  understood 
to  have  said  that  the  spring  was  "loike  to  be  forrard 
t'year,"  and  the  minds  of  the  younger  inhabitants  were 
considerably  relieved.  Not  that  Nat  Barker's  pro 
phecies  were  usually  fulfilled ;  no  one  ever  remembered 
them  at  the  tune  when  they  might  have  been  verified. 
But  they  were  always  made  at  the  season  when  people 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  talk  about  them.  Mr. 
Thomas  Eeid,  the  conservative  sexton,  turned  up  his 
nose  at  them,  and  said  he  "  wished  Nat  Barker  had 
to  dig  a  parish  depth  grave  in  three  hours  without  a 
drop  of  nothin'  to  wet  his  pipe  with,  and  if  he  didden 
fine  that  groun'  oncommon  owdacious  Thomas  Reid  he 


xii.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         185 

didden  know.  They  didden  know  nothin',  sir,  them 
parish  cripples."  Wherewith  the  worthy  sexton  took 
his  way  with  a  battered  tin  can  to  get  his  "  fours  "  at 
the  Feathers.  He  did  not  patronise  the  Duke's  Head. 
It  was  too  new-fangled  for  him,  and  he  suspected  his 
arch  enemy,  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey,  of  putting  a  rat 
or  two  into  the  old  beer  to  make  it  "  draw,"  which 
accounted  for  its  being  so  "  hard."  But  Mr.  Abraham 
Boosey  was  the  undertaker,  and  he,  Thomas  Eeid,  was 
the  sexton,  and  it  did  not  do  to  express  these  views 
too  loudly,  lest  perchance  Mr.  Boosey  should,  just  in 
his  play,  construct  a  coffin  or  two  just  too  big  for  the 
regulation  grave,  and  thereby  leave  Mr.  Eeid  in  the 
lurch.  For  the  undertaker  and  the  gravedigger  are 
as  necessary  to  each  other,  as  Mr.  Eeid  maintained,  as 
a  pair  of  blackbirds  in  a  hedge. 

But  the  spring  was  "forrard  t'year"  and  the 
weather  was  consequently  even  more  detestable  than 
usual  at  that  season.  The  roads  were  heavy.  The 
rain  seemed  never  weary  of  pouring  down  and  the 
wind  never  tired  of  blowing.  The  wet  and  leafless 
creepers  beat  against  the  walls  of  the  cottage,  and  the 
chimneys  smoked  both  there  and  at  the  vicarage.  The 
rooms  were  pervaded  with  a  disagreeable  smell  of 
damp  coal  smoke,  and  the  fires  struggled  desperately 
to  burn  against  the  overwhelming  odds  of  rain  and 
wind  which  came  down  the  chimneys.  Mrs.  Goddard 
never  remembered  to  have  been  so  uncomfortable 
during  the  two  previous  winters  she  had  spent  in 
Billingsfield,  and  even  Nellie  grew  impatient  and 
petulant.  The  only  bright  spot  in  those  long  days 
seemed  to  be  made  by  the  regular  visits  of  Mr.  Juxon, 
by  the  equally  regular  bi-weekly  appearance  of  the 
Ambroses  when  they  came  to  tea,  aud  by  the  little 


186  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

dinners  at  the  vicarage.  The  weather  had  grown  so 
wet  and  the  roads  so  bad  that  on  these  latter  occasions 
the  vicar  sent  .his  dogcart  with  Keynolds  and  the  old 
mare,  Strawberry,  to  fetch  his  two  guests.  Even  Mr. 
Juxon,  who  always  walked  when  he  could,  had  got 
into  the  habit  of  driving  down  to  the  cottage  in  a 
strange  -  looking  gig  which  he  had  imported  from 
America,  and  which,  among  all  the  many  possessions 
of  the  squire,  alone  attracted  the  unfavourable  com 
ment  of  his  butler.  He  would  have  preferred  to  see 
a  good  English  dogcart,  high  in  the  seat  and  wheels, 
at  the  door  of  the  Hall,  instead  of  that  outlandish 
vehicle ;  but  Joseph  Euggles,  the  groom,  explained  to 
him  that  it  was  easier  to  clean  than  a  dogcart,  and 
that  when  it  rained  he  sat  inside  with  the  squire. 

On  a  certain  evening  in  February,  towards  the  end 
of  the  month,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Juxon 
came  to  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Goddard.  Mr.  Juxon  had 
at  first  not  been  regularly  invited  to  these  entertain 
ments.  They  were  perhaps  not  thought  worthy  of  his 
grandeur ;  at  all  events  both  the  vicar's  wife  and  Mrs. 
Goddard  had  asked  him  very  rarely.  But  as  time  went 
on  and  Mr.  Juxon's  character  developed  under  the  eyes 
of  the  little  Billingsfield  society,  it  had  become  apparent 
to  every  one  that  he  was  a  very  simple  man,  making 
no  pretensions  whatever  to  any  superiority  on  account 
of  his  station.  They  grew  more  and  more  fond  of 
him,  and  ended  by  asking  him  to  their  small  sociable 
evenings.  On  these  occasions  it  generally  occurred 
that  the  squire  and  the  vicar  fell  into  conversation 
about  classical  and  literary  subjects  while  the  two 
ladies  talked  of  the  little  incidents  of  Billingsfield  life, 
of  Tom  Judd's  wife  and  baby,  of  Joe  Staines,  the  choir 
boy,  who  was  losing  his  voice,  and  of  similar  topics 


XII.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         187 

of  interest  in  the  very  small  world  in  which  they 
lived. 

The  present  evening  had  not  been  at  all  a  remark 
able  one  so  far  as  the  talk  was  concerned.  The 
drenching  rain,  the  tendency  of  the  fire  to  smoke, 
the  general  wetness  and  condensed  depravity  of  the 
atmosphere  had  affected  the  spirits  of  the  little  party. 
They  were  not  gay,  and  they  broke  up  early.  It  was 
not  nine  o'clock  when  all  had  gone,  and  Mrs.  Goddard 
and  little  Eleanor  were  left  alone  by  the  side  of  their 
drawing-room  fire.  The  child  sat  upon  a  footstool  and 
leaned  her  head  against  her  mother's  knee.  Mrs. 
Goddard  herself  was  thoughtful  and  sad,  without  pre 
cisely  knowing  why.  She  generally  looked  forward 
with  pleasure  to  meeting  the  Ambroses,  but  this  even 
ing  she  had  been  rather  disappointed.  The  conversa 
tion  had  dragged,  and  the  excellent  Mrs.  Ambrose  had 
been  more  than  usually  prosy.  Nellie  had  complained 
of  a  headache  and  leaned  wearily  against  her  mother's 
knee. 

"  Tell  me  a  story,  mamma — won't  you  ?  Like  the 
ones  you  used  to  tell  me  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl." 

"  Dear  child,"  said  her  mother,  who  was  not  thinking 
of  story-telling,  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  forgotten  all  the 
ones  I  ever  knew.  Besides,  darling,  it  is  time  for  you 
to  go  to  bed." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,  mamma.  It  is  such  a 
horrid  night.  The  wind  keeps  me  awake." 

"  You  will  not  sleep  at  all  if  I  tell  you  a  story," 
objected  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  Mr.  Juxon  tells  me  such  nice  stories,"  said  Nellie, 
reproachfully. 

"  What  are  they  about,  dear  ? " 

"  Oh,  his  stories  are  beautiful.      They  are  always 


188         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.        CHAP. 

about  ships  and  the  blue  sea  and  wonderful  desert 
islands  where  he  has  been.  What  a  wonderful  man 
he  is,  mamma,  is  not  he  ? " 

"  Yes,  dear,  he  talks  very  interestingly."  Mrs. 
Goddard  stroked  Nellie's  brown  curls  and  looked  into 
the  fire. 

"  He  told  me  that  once,  ever  so  many  years  ago — 
he  must  be  very  old,  mamma — "  Nellie  paused  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Well,  darling — not  so  very,  very  old.  I  think  he 
is  over  forty." 

"Over  forty — four  times  eleven — he  is  not  four 
times  as  old  as  I  am.  Almost,  though.  All  his  stories 
are  ever  so  many  years  ago.  He  said  he  was  sailing 
away  ever  so  far,  in  a  perfectly  new  ship,  and  the  name 
of  the  ship  was — let  me  see,  what  was  the  name  ?  I 
think  it  was " 

Mrs.  Goddard  started  suddenly  and  laid  her  hand 
on  the  child's  shoulder. 

"  Did  you  hear  anything,  Nellie?"  she  asked  quickly. 
Nellie  looked  up  in  some  surprise. 

"  No,  mamma.  When  ?  Just  now  ?  It  must  have 
been  the  wind.  It  is  such  a  horrid  night.  The  name 
of  the  ship  was  the  '  Zephyr ' — I  remember,  now." 
She  looked  up  again  to  see  if  her  mother  was  listening 
to  the  story.  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  pale  and  glanced 
uneasily  towards  the  closed  window.  She  had  probably 
been  mistaken. 

"And  where  did  the  ship  sail  to,  Nellie  dear  ?"  she 
asked,  smoothing  the  child's  curls  again  and  forcing 
herself  to  smile. 

"  Oh — the  ship  was  a  perfectly  new  ship  and  it  was 
the  most  beautiful  weather  in  the  world.  They  were 
sailing  away  ever  so  far,  towards  the  straits  of  Magellan. 


xii.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         189 

I  was  so  glad  because  I  knew  where  the  straits  of 
Magellan  were — and  Mr.  Juxon  was  immensely  aston 
ished.  But  I  had  been  learning  about  the  Terra  del 
Fuego  and  the  people  who  were  frozen  there,  in  my 
geography  that  very  morning — was  not  it  lucky  ? 
So  I  knew  all  about  it — mamma,  how  nervous  you  are ! 
It  is  nothing  but  the  wind.  I  wish  you  would  listen 
to  my  story " 

"  I  am  listening,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  making 
a  strong  effort  to  overcome  her  agitation  and  drawing 
the  child  closer  to  her.  "  Go  on,  sweetheart — you 
were  in  the  straits  of  Magellan,  you  said,  sailing 
away " 

"  Mr.  Juxon  was,  mamma,"  said  Nellie  correcting 
her  mother  with  the  asperity  of  a  child  who  does  not 
receive  all  the  attention  it  expects. 

"  Of  course,  dear,  Mr.  Juxon,  and  the  ship  was  the 
'  Zephyr.' " 

"  Yes — the  '  Zephyr,' "  repeated  Nellie,  who  was 
easily  pacified.  "  It  was  at  Christmas  time  he  said — 
but  that  is  summer  in  the  southern  hemisphere,"  she 
added,  proud  of  her  knowledge.  "  So  it  was  very  fine 
weather.  And  Mr.  Juxon  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  deck  in  the  afternoon,  smoking  a  cigar " 

"  He  never  smokes,  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Goddard, 
glad  to  show  Nellie  that  she  was  listening. 

"  Well,  but  he  did  then,  because  he  said  so,"  re 
turned  Nellie  unmoved.  "  And  as  he  walked  and 
looked  out — sailors  always  look  out,  you  know — he 
saw  the  most  wonderful  thing,  close  to  the  ship — the 
most  wonderful  thing  he  ever  saw,"  added  Nellie  with 
some  redundance  of  expression. 

"  Was  it  a  whale,  child  ? "  asked  her  mother,  staring 
into  the  fire  and  trying  to  pay  attention. 


190  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  A  whale,  mamma !"  repeated  Nellie  contemptuously. 
"  As  if  there  were  anything  remarkable  about  a  whale  ! 
Mr.  Juxon  has  seen  billions  of  whales,  I  am  sure." 

"  Well,  what  was  it,  dear  ? " 

"  It  was  the  most  awfully  tremendous  thing  with 
green  and  blue  scales,  a  thousand  times  as  big  as  the 
ship — oh  mamma !  What  was  that  ? " 

Nellie  started  up  from  her  stool  and  knelt  beside 
her  mother,  looking  towards  the  window.  Mrs.  Goddard 
was  deathly  pale  and  grasped  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Somebody  knocked  at  the  window,  mamma,"  said 
Nellie  breathlessly.  "  And  then  somebody  said  '  Mary ' 
— quite  loud.  Oh  mamma,  what  can  it  be  ? " 

"  Mary  ? "  repeated  Mrs.  Goddard  as  though  she 
were  in  a  dream. 

"  Yes — quite  loud.  Oh  mamma !  it  must  be  Mary's 
young  man — he  does  sometimes  come  in  the  evening." 

"  Mary's  young  man,  child  ? "  Mrs.  Goddard's  heart 
leaped.  Her  cook's  name  was  Mary,  as  well  as  her 
own.  Nellie  naturally  never  associated  the  name  with 
her  mother,  as  she  never  heard  anybody  call  her  by  it. 

"  Yes  mamma.  Don't  you  know  ?  The  postman 
— the  man  with  the  piebald  horse."  The  explanation 
was  necessary,  as  Mrs.  Goddard  rarely  received  any 
letters  and  probably  did  not  know  the  postman  by 
sight. 

"  At  this  time  of  night ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  It  is  too  bad.  Mary  is  gone  to  bed." 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  you  are  gone  to  the  vicarage 
and  that  Mary  is  sitting  up  for  you  in  the  drawing- 
room,"  suggested  Nellie  with  much  good  sense.  "  Well, 
he  can't  come  in,  can  he,  mamma  ? " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  her  mother.  "  But  I  think 
you  had  much  better  go  to  bed,  my  dear.  It  is  half- 


XII.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          191 

past  nine."  She  spoke  indistinctly,  almost  thickly, 
and  seemed  to  be  making  a  violent  effort  to  control 
herself.  But  Nellie  had  settled  down  upon  her  stool 
again,  and  did  not  notice  her  mother. 

"  Oh  not  yet,"  said  she.  "  I  have  not  nearly  finished 
about  the  sea-serpent.  Mr.  Juxon  said  it  was  not  like 
anything  in  the  world.  Do  listen,  mamma !  It  is 
the  most  wonderful  story  you  ever  heard.  It  was  all 
covered  with  blue  and  green  scales,  and  it  rolled,  and 
rolled,  and  rolled,  and  rolled,  till  at  last  it  rolled  up 
against  the  side  of  the  ship  with  such  a  tremendous 
bump  that  Mr.  Juxon  fell  right  down  on  his  back." 

"  Yes  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  mechanically,  as  the 
child  paused. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  mind  at  all ! "  cried  Nellie,  who 
felt  that  her  efforts  to  amuse  her  mother  were  not  pro 
perly  appreciated.  "  He  fell  right  down  on  his  back 
and  hurt  himself  awfully." 

"  That  was  very  sad,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  Did  he 
catch  the  sea-serpent  afterwards  ? " 

"  Catch  the  sea-serpent !  "Why  mamma,  don't  you 
know  that  nobody  has  ever  caught  the  sea-serpent  ? 
Why,  hardly  anybody  has  ever  seen  him,  even  ! " 

"  Yes  dear,  but  I  thought  Mr.  Juxon " 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Juxon  is  the  most  wonderful  man 
— but  he  could  not  catch  the  sea-serpent.  Just  fancy  ! 
When  he  got  up  from  his  fall,  he  looked  and  he  saw 
him  quite  half  a  mile  away.  He  must  have  gone 
awfully  fast,  should  not  you  think  so  ?  Because,  you 
know,  it  was  only  a  minute." 

"Yes,  my  child;  and  it  is  a  beautiful  story,  and 
you  told  it  so  nicely.  It  is  very  interesting  and  you 
must  tell  me  another  to-morrow.  Bnt  now,  dear,  you 
must  really  go  to  bed,  because  I  am  going  to  bed,  too. 


192  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

That  man  startled  me  so,"  she  said,  passing  her  small 
white  hand  over  her  pale  forehead  and  then  staring  into 
the  fire. 

"  Well,  I  don't  wonder,"  answered  Nellie  in  a  patron 
ising  tone.  "  Such  a  dreadful  night  too  !  Of  course, 
it  would  startle  anybody.  But  he  won't  try  again,  and 
you  can  scold  Mary  to-morrow  and  then  she  can  scold 
her  young  man." 

The  child  spoke  so  naturally  that  all  doubts  vanished 
from  Mrs.  Goddard's  mind.  She  reflected  that  children 
are  much  more  apt  to  see  things  as  they  are,  than  grown 
people  whose  nerves  are  out  of  order.  Nellie's  conclu 
sions  were  perfectly  logical,  and  it  seemed  folly  to 
doubt  them.  She  determined  that  Mary  should  cer 
tainly  be  scolded  on  the  morrow  and  she  unconsciously 
resolved  in  her  mind  the  words  she  should  use ;  for 
she  was  rather  a  timid  woman  and  stood  a  little  in 
awe  of  her  stalwart  Berkshire  cook,  with  her  mighty 
arms  and  her  red  face,  and  her  uncommonly  plain 
language. 

"  Yes  dear,"  she  said  more  quietly  than  she  had  been 
able  to  speak  for  some  time,  "  I  have  no  doubt  you  are 
quite  right.  I  thought  I  heard  his  footsteps  just  now, 
going  down  the  path.  So  he  will  not  trouble  us  any 
more  to-night.  And  now  darling,  kneel  down  and  say 
your  prayers,  and  then  we  will  go  to  bed." 

So  Nellie,  reassured  by  the  news  that  her  mother 
was  going  to  bed,  too,  knelt  down  as  she  had  done 
every  night  during  the  eleven  years  of  her  life,  and 
clasped  her  hands  together,  beneath  her  mother's. 
Then  she  cleared  her  throat,  then  she  glanced  at  the 
clock,  then  she  looked  for  one  moment  into  the 
sweet  serious  violet  eyes  that  looked  down  on  her  so 
lovingly,  and  then  at  last  she  bent  her  lovely  little 


XI r.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  193 

head  and  began  to  say  her  prayers,  there,  by  the 
fire,  at  her  mother's  knees,  while  angry  storm  howled 
fiercely  without  and  shook  the  closed  panes  and  shutters 
and  occasional  drops  of  rain,  falling  down  the  short 
chimney,  sputtered  in  the  smouldering  coal  fire. 

"  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven,  Hallowed  be 
Thy  Name,  Thy  Kingdom  come " 

Nellie  gave  a  loud  scream  and  springing  up  from 
her  knees  flung  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  in 
uttermost,  wildest  terror. 

"Mamma,  mamma!"  she  cried  looking,  and  yet 
hardly  daring  to  look,  back  towards  the  closed  window. 
"  It  called  '  MARY  GODDARD  ' !  It  is  you,  mamma  ! 
Oh!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  this  time.  "While  Nellie 
was  saying  her  prayer  there  had  come  three  sharp  and 
distinct  raps  upon  the  wooden  shutter,  and  a  voice, 
not  loud  but  clear,  penetrating  into  the  room  in  spite 
of  wind  and  storm  and  rain. 

"  Mary  Goddard  !  Mary  Goddard  ! "  it  said. 

Mrs.  Goddard  started  to  her  feet,  lifting  Nellie  bodily 
from  the  ground  in  her  agony  of  terror;  staring  round 
the  room  wildly  as  though  in  search  of  some  possible 
escape. 

"  I  must  come  in  !  I  will  come  in  ! "  said  the  voice 
again. 

"  Oh  don't  let  him  in !  Mamma !  Don't  let  him 
in ! "  moaned  the  terrified  child  upon  her  breast,  cling 
ing  to  her  and  weighing  her  down,  and  grasping  her 
neck  and  arm  with  convulsive  strength. 

But  in  moments  of  great  agitation  timid  people,  or 
people  who  are  thought  timid,  not  uncommonly  do 
brave  things.  Mrs.  Goddard  unclasped  Nellie's  hold 
and  forced  the  terror-struck  child  into  a  deep  chair. 

o 


194  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  Stay  there,  darling,"  she  said  with  unnatural  calm 
ness.  "Do  not  be  afraid.  I  will  go  and  open  the 
door." 

Nellie  was  now  too  much  frightened  to  resist.  Mrs. 
Goddard  went  out  into  the  little  passage  which  was 
dimly  lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp,  and  closed  the  door 
of  the  drawing-room  behind  her.  She  could  hear 
Nellie's  occasional  convulsive  sobs  distinctly.  For  one 
moment  she  paused,  her  right  hand  on  the  lock  of  the 
front  door,  her  left  hand  pressed  to  her  side,  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  the  passage.  Then  she  turned  the 
key  and  the  handle  and  drew  the  door  in  towards  her. 
A  violent  gust  of  wind,  full  of  cold  and  drenching 
rain,  whirled  into  the  passage  and  almost  blinded  her. 
The  lamp  flickered  in  the  lantern  overhead.  But  she 
looked  boldly  out,  facing  the  wind  and  weather. 

"  Come  in  ! "  she  called  in  a  low  voice. 

Immediately  there  was  a  sound  as  of  footsteps  coming 
from  the  direction  of  the  drawing-room  window,  across 
the  wet  slate  flags  which  surrounded  the  cottage,  and 
a  moment  afterwards,  peering  through  the  darkness, 
Mrs.  Goddard  saw  a  man  with  a  ghastly  face  standing 
before  her  in  the  rain. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         195 


CHAPTEE   XIII. 

MRS.  GODDARD'S  heart  stood  still  as  she  looked  at  the 
wretched  man,  and  tried  to  discover  her  husband's  face, 
even  a  resemblance  to  him,  in  the  haggard  features  she 
saw  close  before  her.  But  he  gave  her  small  time  for 
reflection ;  so  soon  as  he  had  recognised  her  he  sprang 
past  her  into  the  passage  and  pulling  her  after  him 
closed  the  door. 

"Mary — don't  you  know  me?"  he  said,  in  low 
tones.  "You  must  save  me — they  are  after  me — " 
He  stood  close  beside  her  in  the  narrow  way,  beneath 
the  small  lamp ;  he  tried  to  put  his  arm  around  her 
and  he  bent  down  and  brought  his  ghastly  face  close 
to  hers.  But  she  drew  back  as  from  a  contamination. 
She  was  horrified,  and  it  was  a  natural  movement. 
She  knew  his  voice  even  better  than  his  features,  now 
that  he  spoke.  He  pressed  nearer  to  her  and  she 
thrust  him  back  with  her  hands.  Then  suddenly  a 
thought  struck  her ;  she  took  him  by  the  sleeve  and 
led  him  to  the  dining-room.  There  was  no  light  there ; 
she  pushed  him  in. 

"  Stay  there  one  minute " 

"  No — no,  you  won't  call " 

"  I  will  save  you — there  is — there  is  somebody  in 
the  drawing-room."  Before  he  could  answer  her  she 
was  gone,  leaving  him  alone  in  the  dark.  He  listened 


196  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

intently,  not  venturing  to  leave  the  spot  where  she  had 
placed  him ;  he  thought  he  heard  voices  and  footsteps, 
but  no  one  came  out  into  the  passage.  It  seemed  an 
eternity  to  wait.  At  last  she  came,  bearing  a  lighted 
candle  in  her  hand.  She  carefully  shut  the  door  of 
the  dining-room  behind  her  and  put  the  light  upon 
the  table.  She  moved  like  a  person  in  a  dream. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  chair.  "  Are  you 
hungry  ? "  His  sunken  eyes  sparkled.  She  brought 
food  and  ale  and  set  them  before  him.  He  ate  and 
drank  voraciously  in  silence.  She  sat  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table — the  solitary  candle  between  them, 
and  shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand  she  gazed  at  his 
face. 

"Walter  Goddard  was  a  man  at  least  forty  years  of 
age.  He  had  been  thought  very  handsome  once.  He 
had  light  blue  eyes  and  a  fair  skin  with  flaxen  hair — 
now  cropped  short  and  close  to  his  head.  There  was 
nearly  a  fortnight's  growth  of  beard  upon  his  face,  but 
it  was  not  yet  sufficient  to  hide  his  mouth  and  chin. 
He  had  formerly  worn  a  heavy  moustache  and  it  was 
chiefly  the  absence  of  it  which  now  made  it  hard  for 
his  wife  to  recognise  him.  A  battered  hat,  drenched 
and  dripping  with  rain,  shaded  his  brows.  Possibly 
he  was  ashamed  to  remove  it.  His  mouth  was  small 
and  weak  and  his  jaw  was  pointed.  His  whole  ex 
pression  was  singularly  disagreeable — his  hands  were 
filthy,  and  his  face  was  not  clean.  About  his  neck 
was  twisted  a  ragged  woollen  comforter,  and  he  wore 
a  smock-frock  which  was  now  soaked  with  water  and 
clung  to  his  thin  figure.  He  devoured  the  food  his 
wife  had  brought  him,  shivering  from  time  to  time  as 
though  he  were  still  cold. 

Mrs.  Goddard  watched  him  in  silence.     She   had 


XIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  197 

done  mechanically  according  to  her  first  instinct,  had 
led  him  in  and  had  given  him  food.  But  she  had  not 
recovered  herself  sufficiently  from  her  first  horror  and 
astonishment  to  realise  her  situation.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"  How  did  you  escape  ? "  she  asked.  He  bent  lower 
than  before,  over  his  plate  and  would  not  look  at  her. 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it  ? "  she  inquired  again.  Goddard 
laughed  harshly ;  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  cracked. 

"  Why  did  I  do  it ! "  he  repeated.  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  any  one  who  would  not  escape  from  prison  if 
he  had  the  chance  ?  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
Mary " 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  seem  very  glad  to  see  me,"  he  answered 
roughly.  "  I  might  have  known  it." 

"  Yes,  you  might  have  known  it." 

It  seemed  a  very  hard  and  cruel  thing  to  say,  and 
Mary  Goddard  was  very  far  from  being  a  cruel  woman 
by  nature ;  but  she  was  stunned  by  fear  and  disgust 
and  horrified  by  the  possibilities  of  harm  suddenly 
brought  before  her. 

Goddard  pushed  his  plate  away  and  leaned  his 
elbows  upon  the  table  supporting  his  chin  in  his 
hands.  He  scowled  at  her  defiantly. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  warm  reception,  after  nearly 
three  years  of — separation."  There  was  a  bitter  sneer 
in  the  word. 

"  I  am  horrified  to  see  you  here,"  she  said  simply. 
"  You  know  very  well  that  I  cannot  conceal  you " 

"Oh,  I  don't  expect  miracles,"  said  Goddard  con 
temptuously.  "  I  don't  know  that,  when  I  came  here, 
I  expected  to  cause  you  any  particularly  agreeable 


198  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

sensation.  I  confess,  when  a  woman  has  not  seen  her 
beloved  husband  for  three  years,  one  might  expect  her 
to  show  a  little  feeling " 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you,  Walter,"  said  his 
wife,  whose  unnatural  calm  was  fast  yielding  to  an 
overpowering  agitation. 

"  Then  give  me  fifty  pounds  and  tell  me  the  nearest 
way  east,"  answered  the  convict  savagely. 

"  I  have  not  got  fifty  pounds  in  the  house,"  protested 
Mary  Goddard,  in  some  alarm.  "  I  never  keep  much 
money — I  can  get  it  for  you " 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  look,"  returned  her  husband 
suspiciously.  "  How  soon  can  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  night — the  time  to  get  a  cheque 
cashed " 

"  So  you  keep  a  banker's  account  ? " 

"  Of  course.  But  a  cheque  would  be  of  no  use  to 
you — I  wish  it  were  ! " 

"  Naturally  you  do.  You  would  get  rid  of  me  at 
once."  Suddenly  his  voice  changed.  "  Oh,  Mary — 
you  used  to  love  me ! "  cried  the  wretched  man,  bury 
ing  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  was  very  wrong,"  answered  his  wife,  looking 
away  from  him.  "  You  did  not  deserve  it — you  never 
did." 

"  Because  I  was  unfortunate  !" 

"  Unfortunate  ! "  repeated  Mary  Goddard  with  rising 
scorn.  "  Unfortunate — when  you  were  deceiving  me 
every  day  of  your  life.  I  could  have  forgiven  a  great 
deal — Walter — but  not  that,  not  that !" 

"  What  ?  About  the  money  ?"  he  asked  with  sudden 
fierceness. 

"The  money — no.  Even  though  you  were  dis 
graced  and  convicted,  Walter,  I  would  have  forgiven 


xiii.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  199 

that,  I  would  have  tried  to  see  you,  to  comfort  you. 
I  should  have  been  sorry  for  you  ;  I  would  have  done 
what  I  could  to  help  you.  But  I  could  not  forgive 
you  the  rest;  I  never  can." 

"  Bah  !  I  never  cared  for  her,"  said  the  convict.  But 
under  his  livid  skin  there  rose  a  faint  blush  of  shame. 

"  You  never  cared  for  me  —  that  is  the  reason  I  —  I 
am  not  glad  to  see  you  -  " 

"  I  did,  Mary.  Upon  my  soul  I  did.  I  love  you 
still  !  "  He  rose  and  came  near  to  his  wife,  and  again 
he  would  have  put  his  arm  around  her.  But  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  with  an  angry  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  dare  to  touch  me,  I  will  give  you  up  !"  she 
cried.  Goddard  shrank  back  to  his  chair,  very  pale 
and  trembling  violently. 

"You  would  not  do  that,  Mary,"  he  almost  whined. 
But  she  remained  standing,  looking  at  him  very  menac- 


"  Indeed  I  would  —  you  don't  know  me,"  she  said, 
between  her  teeth. 

"  You  are  as  hard  as  a  stone,"  he  answered,  sullenly, 
and  for  some  minutes  there  was  silence  between  them. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  turn  me  out  into  the 
rain  again  ?  "  asked  the  convict. 

"You  cannot  stay  here  —  you  are  not  safe  for  a 
minute.  You  will  have  to  go.  You  must  come  back 
to-morrow  and  I  will  give  you  the  money.  You  had 
better  go  now  -  " 

"  Oh,  Mary,  I  would  not  have  thought  it  of  you," 
moaned  Goddard. 

"Why  —  what  else  can  I  do  ?  I  cannot  let  you 
sleep  in  the  house  —  I  have  no  barn.  If  any  one  saw 
you  here  it  would  be  all  over.  People  know  about 
it  -  " 


200  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"What  people?" 

"The  vicar  and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Juxon  at  the 
Hall." 

"  Mr.  Juxon  ?  What  is  he  like  ?  Would  he  give 
me  up  if  he  knew  ? " 

"  I  think  he  would,"  said  Mary  Goddard,  thought 
fully.  "  I  am  almost  sure  he  would.  He  is  the 
justice  of  the  peace  here — he  would  be  bound  to." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ? "  Goddard  thought  he  de 
tected  a  slight  nervousness  in  his  wife's  manner. 

"  Very  well.     This  house  belongs  to  him." 

"  Oh  ! "  ejaculated  the  convict.     "  I  begin  to  see." 

"Yes — you  see  you  had  better  go,"  said  his  wife 
innocently.  "  How  can  you  manage  to  come  here  to 
morrow  ?  You  cannot  go  on  without  the  money " 

"  No — and  I  don't  mean  to,"  he  answered  roughly. 
Money  was  indeed  an  absolute  necessity  to  him. 
"  Give  me  what  you  have  got  in  the  house,  anyhow. 
You  may  think  better  of  it  to-morrow.  I  don't  trust 
people  of  your  stamp." 

Mary  Goddard  rose  without  a  word  and  left  the 
room.  When  she  was  gone  the  convict  set  himself 
to  finish  the  jug  of  ale  she  had  brought,  and  looked 
about  him.  He  saw  objects  that  reminded  him  of  his 
former  home.  He  examined  the  fork  with  which  he 
had  eaten  and  remembered  the  pattern  and  the  en 
graved  initials  as  he  turned  it  over  in  his  hand.  The 
very  table  itself  had  belonged  to  his  house — the  carpet 
beneath  his  feet,  the  chair  upon  which  he  sat.  It  all 
seemed  too  unnatural  to  be  true.  That  very  night, 
that  very  hour,  he  must  go  forth  again  into  the  wild 
February  weather  and  hide  himself,  leaving  all  these 
things  behind  him ;  leaving  behind  too  his  wife,  the 
woman  he  had  so  bitterly  injured,  but  who  was  still 


XIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  201 

his  wife.  It  seemed  impossible.  Surely  he  might 
stay  if  he  pleased ;  it  was  not  true  that  detectives  were 
on  his  track — it  was  all  a  dream,  since  that  dreadful 
day  when  he  had  written  that  name,  which  was  not 
his,  upon  a  piece  of  paper.  He  had  waked  up  and 
was  again  at  home.  But  he  started  as  he  heard  a 
footstep  in  the  passage,  being  now  accustomed  to  start 
at  sounds  which  suggested  pursuit ;  he  started  and  he 
felt  the  wet  smock-frock,  which  was  his  disguise,  cling 
ing  to  him  as  he  moved,  and  the  reality  of  the  present 
returned  to  him  with  awful  force.  His  wife  again 
entered  the  room. 

"  There  are  over  nine  pounds,"  she  said.  "  It  is  all 
I  have."  She  laid  the  money  upon  the  table  before 
him  and  remained  standing.  "  You  shall  have  the 
rest  to-morrow,"  she  added. 

"Can't  I  see  Nellie?"  he  asked  suddenly.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  spoken  of  his  child.  Mrs.  God- 
dard  hesitated. 

"  No,"  she  said  at  last.  "  You  cannot  see  her  now. 
She  must  not  be  told ;  she  thinks  you  are  dead.  You 
may  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  to-morrow " 

"  Well — it  is  better  she  should  not  know,  I  suppose. 
You  could  not  explain." 

"No,  Walter,  I  could  not — explain.  Come  later 
to-morrow  night — to  the  same  window.  I  will  undo 
the  shutters  and  give  you  the  money."  Mary  Goddard 
was  almost  overcome  with  exhaustion.  It  was  a  ter 
rible  struggle  to  maintain  her  composure  under  such 
circumstances ;  but  necessity  does  wonders.  "  Where 
will  you  sleep  to-night  ? "  she  asked  presently.  She 
pitied  the  wretch  from  her  heart,  though  she  longed 
to  see  him  leave  her  house. 

"  I  will  get  into  the  stables  of  some  public-house. 


202  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

I  pass  for  a  tramp."  There  was  a  terrible  earnestness 
in  the  simple  statement,  which  did  more  to  make  Mary 
Goddard  realise  her  husband's  position  than  anything 
else  could  have  done.  To  people  who  live  in  the 
country  the  word  "  tramp  "  means  so  much. 

"  Poor  Walter ! "  said  Mrs.  Goddard  softly,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  she  had  seen  him  the  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  waste  your  pity  on  me,"  he  answered.  "  Let 
me  be  off." 

There  was  half  a  loaf  and  some  cheese  left  upon 
the  table.  Mrs.  Goddard  put  them  together  and  offered 
them  to  him." 

"You  had  better  take  it,"  she  said.  He  took  the 
food  readily  enough  and  hid  it  under  his  frock.  He 
knew  the  value  of  it.  Then  he  got  upon  his  feet.  He 
moved  painfully,  for  the  cold  and  the  wet  had  stiffened 
his  limbs  already  weakened  with  hunger  and  exhaus 
tion. 

"  Let  me  be  off,"  he  said  again,  and  moved  towards 
the  door.  His  wife  followed  him  in  silence.  In  the 
passage  he  paused  again. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  you  for  not  giving  me  up  to  the  police." 

"You  know  very  well,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard, 
"  that  what  I  can  do  to  save  you,  I  will  do.  You 
know  that." 

"Then  do  it,  and  don't  forget  the  money.  It's 
hanging  this  time  if  I'm  caught." 

Mrs.  Goddard  uttered  a  low  cry  and  leaned  against 
the  wall. 

"  What  ? "  she  faltered.     "  You  have  not " 

"  I  believe  I  killed  somebody  in  getting  away,"  an 
swered  the  felon  with  a  grim  laugh.  Then,  without 


XIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  203 

her  assistance,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into 
the  pouring  rain.  The  door  shut  behind  him  and  Mary 
Goddard  heard  his  retreating  footsteps  on  the  path 
outside.  When  he  was  fairly  gone  she  suddenly  broke 
down,  and  falling  upon  her  knees  in  the  passage  beat 
.her  forehead  against  the  wall  in  an  agony  of  despair. 

Murderer — thief,  forger  and  murderer,  too  !  It  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.  Even  now  he  was  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  her  house ;  a  moment  ago  he  had 
been  here,  beside  her — there  beyond,  too,  in  the  dining- 
room,  sitting  opposite  to  her  at  her  own  table  as  he 
had  sat  in  his  days  of  innocence  and  honour  for  many 
a  long  year  before  his  crime.  In  the  sudden  necessity 
of  acting,  in  the  unutterable  surprise  of  finding  herself 
again  face  to  face  with  him,  she  had  been  calm ;  now 
that  he  was  gone  she  felt  as  though  she  must  go  mad. 
She  asked  herself  if  this  filthy  tramp,  this  branded 
villain,  was  the  husband  she  had  loved  and  cherished 
for  years,  whose  beauty  she  had  admired,  whose  hand 
she  had  held  so  often,  whose  lips  she  had  kissed — if 
this  was  the  father  of  her  lovely  child.  It  was  all 
over  now.  There  was  blood  upon  his  hands  as  well 
as  other  guilt.  If  he  were  caught  he  must  die,  or  at  the 
very  least  be  imprisoned  for  life.  He  could  never  again 
be  free  to  come  forth  after  the  expiation  of  his  crimes 
and  to  claim  her  and  his  child.  If  he  escaped  now, 
it  must  be  to  live  in  a  distant  country  under  a  per 
petual  disguise.  If  he  were  caught,  the  news  of  his 
capture  would  be  in  all  the  papers,  the  news  of  his 
trial  for  murder,  the  very  details  of  his  execution. 
The  Ambroses  would  know  and  the  squire,  even  the 
country  folk,  would  perhaps  at  last  know  the  truth 
about  her.  Life  even  in  the  quiet  spot  she  had  chosen 
would  become  intolerable,  and  she.  would  be  obliged 


204  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

to  go  forth  again  into  a  more  distant  exile.  She 
bitterly  repented  having  written  to  her  husband  in  his 
prison  to  tell  him  where  she  was  settled.  It  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  acquaint  the  governor  with  the 
fact,  so  that  Goddard  might  know  where  she  was  when 
his  term  expired.  She  had  never  written  but  once,, 
and  he  had  perhaps  not  been  allowed  to  answer  the 
letter.  His  appearance  at  her  door  proved  that  he 
had  received  it.  Would  to  God  he  had  not,  she 
thought. 

There  were  other  things  besides  his  crime  of  forgery 
which  had  acted  far  more  powerfully  upon  Mary 
Goddard's  mind,  and  which  had  broken  for  ever  all 
ties  of  affection;  circumstances  which  had  appeared 
during  his  trial  and  which  had  shown  that  he  had  not 
only  been  unfaithful  to  those  who  trusted  him,  but  had 
been  unfaithful  to  the  wife  who  loved  him.  That  was 
what  she  could  not  forgive ;  it  was  the  memory  of 
that  which  rose  like  an  impassable  wall  between  her 
and  him,  worse  than  his  frauds,  his  forgery,  worse 
almost  than  his  murder.  He  had  done  that  which  even 
a  loving  woman  could  not  pardon,  that  which  was  past 
all  forgiveness.  That  was  why  his  sudden  appearance 
roused  no  tender  memories,  elicited  seemingly  so  little 
sympathy  from  her.  She  was  too  good  a  woman  to 
say  it,  but  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  she  wished  him 
dead,  the  very  possibility  of  ever  seeing  him  again  gone 
from  her  life  for  ever,  no  matter  how. 

But  she  must  see  him  again,  nevertheless,  and  to 
morrow.  To-morrow,  too,  she  would  have  to  meet  the 
squire,  and  appear  to  act  and  talk  as  though  nothing 
had  happened  in  this  terrible  night.  That  would  be 
the  hardest  of  all,  perhaps ;  even  harder  than  meeting 
her  husband  for  a  brief  moment  in  order  to  give  him 


xiir.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  205 

the  means  of  escape.  She  felt  that  in  helping  him  she 
was  participating  in  his  crimes,  and  yet,  she  asked  her 
self,  what  woman  would  have  acted  differently  ?  What 
woman,  even  though  she  might  hate  her  husband  with 
her  whole  soul,  and  justly,  would  yet  be  so  hard 
hearted  as  to  refuse  him  assistance  when  he  was  flying 
for  his  life  ?  It  would  be  impossible.  She  must  help 
him  at  any  cost;  but  it  was  hard  to  feel  that  she 
must  see  the  squire  and  behave  with  indifference, 
while  her  husband  was  lurking  in  the  neighbourhood, 
when  a  detective  might  at  any  moment  come  to  the 
door,  and  demand  to  search  the  house. 

These  thoughts  passed  very  quickly  through  her  over 
wrought  brain,  as  she  knelt  in  the  passage ;  kneeling 
because  she  felt  that  she  could  no  longer  stand,  the  pas 
sionate  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  her  small  hands 
pressing  her  temples.  Then  she  struggled  to  her  feet 
and  dried  her  eyes,  steadying  herself  against  the  wall 
for  a  moment.  She  had  almost  forgotten  little  Nellie 
whom  she  had  left  in  the  drawing-room.  She  had  told 
the  child,  when  she  went  back  to  her,  leaving  Goddard 
alone  in  the  dark,  that  the  man  was  a  poor  starving 
tramp,  but  that  she  did  not  want  Nellie  to  see  him, 
because  he  looked  so  miserable.  She  would  give  him 
something  to  eat  and  send  him  away,  she  said,  and 
meanwhile  Nellie  should  sit  by  the  drawing-room  fire 
and  wait  for  her.  The  child  trusted  her  mother  im 
plicitly  and  was  completely  reassured.  Mrs.  Goddard 
dried  her  eyes,  and  re-entered  the  room.  Nellie  was 
curled  up  in  a  big  chair  with  a  book ;  she  looked  up 
quickly. 

"  Why,  mamma,"  she  said,  "  you  have  been  crying  ! " 
"  Have  I,  darling  ?     I  daresay  it  was  the  sight  of 
that  poor  man.     He  was  very  wretched." 


206  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

"  Is  he  gone  ? "  asked  the  child. 

It  was  unusually  late  and  Nellie  was  beginning  to 
be  sleepy,  so  that  she  was  more  easily  quieted  than 
she  could  have  been  in  ordinary  circumstances.  It 
might  have  struck  her  as  strange  that  a  wandering 
tramp  should  know  her  mother's  Christian  name,  as 
still  more  inexplicable  that  her  mother  should  have 
been  willing  to  admit  such  a  man  at  so  late  an 
hour.  She  had  been  badly  frightened,  but  trusting 
her  mother  as  she  did,  her  terror  had  quickly  dis 
appeared  and  had  been  quickly  followed  by  sleepi 
ness. 

But  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  sleep  that  night.  She 
felt  as  though  she  could  never  sleep  again,  and  for 
many  hours  she  lay  thinking  of  the  new  element  of 
fear  which  had  so  suddenly  come  into  her  life  at 
the  very  time  when  she  believed  herself  to  be  safe  for 
many  years  to  come.  She  longed  to  know  where  her 
wretched  husband  was ;  whether  he  had  found  shelter 
for  the  night,  whether  he  was  still  free  or  whether  he 
had  even  then  fallen  into  the  hands  of  his  pursuers. 
She  knew  that  she  could  not  have  concealed  him  in 
the  house  and  that  she  had  done  all  that  lay  in  her 
power  for  him.  But  she  started  at  every  sound,  as 
the  rain  rattled  against  the  shutters  and  the  wind 
howled  down  the  chimney. 

"Walter  Goddard,  however,  was  safe  for  the  present 
and  was  even  luxuriously  lodged,  considering  his  cir 
cumstances,  for  he  was  comfortably  installed  amongst 
the  hay  in  the  barn  of  the  "  Feathers  "  inn.  He  had 
been  in  Billingsfield  since  early  in  the  afternoon  and 
had  considered  carefully  the  question  of  his  quarters 
for  the  night.  He  had  observed  from  a  distance  the 
landlord  of  the  said  inn,  and  had  boldly  offered  to  do 


XIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  207 

a  "  day's  work  for  a  night's  lodging."  He  said  he  was 
"  tramping "  his  way  back  from  London  to  his  home 
in  Yorkshire ;  he  knew  enough  of  the  sound  of  the 
rough  Yorkshire  dialect  to  pass  for  a  native  of  that 
county  amongst  ignorant  labourers  who  had  never 
heard  the  real  tongue.  The  landlord  of  the  Feathers 
consented  to  the  bargain  and  Goddard  was  told  that  he 
might  sleep  in  the  barn  if  he  liked,  and  should  take  a 
turn  at  cutting  chaff  the  next  day  to  pay  for  the  con 
venience.  The  convict  slept  soundly;  he  was  past 
lying  awake  in  useless  fits  of  remorse,  and  he  was 
exhausted  with  his  day's  journey.  Moreover  he  had 
now  the  immediate  prospect  of  obtaining  sufficient 
money  to  carry  him  safely  out  of  the  country,  and  once 
abroad  he  felt  sure  of  baffling  pursuit.  He  was  an 
accomplished  man  and  spoke  French  with  a  fluency 
unusual  in  Englishmen ;  he  determined  to  get  across 
the  channel  in  some  fishing  craft;  he  would  then 
make  his  way  to  Paris  and  enlist  in  the  Foreign 
Legion.  It  would  be  safer  than  trying  to  go  to 
America,  where  people  were  invariably  caught  as  they 
landed.  It  was  a  race  for  life  and  death,  and  he  knew 
it.  Had  he  been  able  to  obtain  clothes,  money  and  a 
disguise  in  London  he  would  have  travelled  by  rail. 
But  that  had  been  impossible  and  it  now  seemed  a  wiser 
plan  to  "  tramp  "  it.  His  beard  was  growing  rapidly 
and  would  soon  make  a  complete  disguise.  Village 
constables  are  generally  simple  people,  easily  imposed 
upon,  very  different  from  London  detectives;  and 
hitherto  he  felt  sure  that  he  had  baffled  pursuit  by  the 
mere  simplicity  of  his  proceedings.  The  intelligent 
officials  of  Scotland  Yard  were  used  to  forgers  and 
swindlers  who  travelled  by  express  trains  and  crossed 
to  America  by  fashionable  steamers.  It  did  not  strike 


208  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

them  as  very  likely  that  a  man  of  Walter  Goddard's 
previous  tastes  and  habits  could  get  through  the 
country  in  the  guise  of  a  tramp.  If  he  had  been  pos 
sessed  at  the  time  of  his  escape  of  the  money  he  so 
much  desired  he  would  probably  have  been  caught ;  as 
it  was,  he  got  away  without  difficulty,  and  at  the  very 
time  when  every  railway  station  and  every  port  in  the 
kingdom  were  being  watched  for  him,  he  was  lurking 
in  the  purlieus  of  Whitechapel,  and  then  tramping  his 
way  east  in  comparative  safety,  half  starved,  it  is  true, 
but  unmolested. 

That  he  was  disappointed  at  the  reception  his  wife 
had  given  him  did  not  prevent  him  from  sleeping 
peacefully  that  night.  One  thing  alone  disturbed  him, 
and  that  was  her  mention  of  Mr.  Juxon,  in  whose 
house,  as  she.  had  told  him,  she  lived.  It  seems 
incredible  that  a  man  in  Walter  Goddard's  position, 
lost  to  every  sense  of  honour,  a  criminal  of  the  worst 
type,  who  had  deceived  his  wife  before  he  was  indicted 
for  forgery,  who  had  certainly  cared  very  little  for  her 
at  any  time,  should  now,  in  a  moment  of  supreme 
danger,  feel  a  pang  of  jealousy  on  hearing  that  his 
wife  lived  in  the  vicinity  of  the  squire  and  occupied  a 
house  belonging  to  him.  But  he  was  too  bad  himself 
not  to  suspect  others,  especially  those  whom  he  had 
wronged,  and  the  feeling  was  mingled  with  a  strong 
curiosity  to  know  whether  this  woman,  who  now 
treated  him  so  haughtily  and  drew  back  from  him  as 
from  some  monstrous  horror,  was  as  good  as  she  pre 
tended  to  be.  He  said  to  himself  that  on  the  next 
day  at  dawn  he  would  slip  out  of  the  barn  and  try 
whether  he  could  not  find  some  hiding-place  within 
easy  reach  of  the  cottage,  so  as  to  be  able  to  watch 
her  dwelling  at  his  ease  throughout  the  day.  The 


xiil.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  209 

plan  seemed  a  good  one.  Since  he  was  obliged  to 
wait  twenty-four  hours  in  order  to  get  the  money  he 
wanted,  he  might  as  well  employ  the  time  profitably 
in  observing  his  wife's  habits.  It  would  be  long,  he 
said  to  himself  with  a  bitter  sneer,  before  he  troubled 
her  again — he  would  just  like  to  see. 

Having  come  to  this  decision  he  drew  some  of  the 
hay  over  his  body  and  in  spite  of  cold  and  wet  was 
soon  peacefully  asleep.  But  at  early  dawn  he  awoke 
with  the  alacrity  of  a  man  who  constantly  expects 
pursuit,  and  slipped  down  from  the  hayloft  into  the 
barn.  There  was  no  one  stirring  and  he  got  over  the 
fence  at  the  back  of  the  yard  and  skirted  the  fields  in 
the  direction  of  the  church,  finally  climbing  another 
stile  and  entering  what  he  supposed  to  be  the  park. 
On  this  side  the  back  of  the  church  ran  out  into  a 
broad  meadow,  where  the  larger  portion  of  the  ancient 
abbey  had  once  stood.  Goddard  walked  along  close 
by  the  church  walls.  He  knew  from  his  observation 
on  the  previous  afternoon  that  he  could  thus  come  out 
into  the  road  in  the  vicinity  of  the  cottage,  unless  his 
way  through  the  park  were  interrupted  by  impassable 
wire  fences.  The  ground  was  very  heavy  and  he  was 
sure  not  to  meet  anybody  in  the  meadows  in  such 
weather. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  looked  at  a  buttress  that 
jutted  out  from  the  church  and  for  the  existence  of 
which  there  seemed  to  be  no  ostensible  reason.  He 
examined  it  and  found  that  it  was  not  a  buttress  but 
apparently  a  half  ruined  chamber,  which  at  some  former 
period  had  been  built  upon  the  side  of  the  abbey. 
Low  down  by  the  ground  there  was  a  hole,  where 
a  few  stones  seemed  to  have  been  removed  and  not 
replaced.  Goddard  knelt  down  in  the  long  wet  grass 

p 


210  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP, 

and  put  in  his  head ;  then  he  crept  in  on  his  hands 
and  knees  and  presently  disappeared. 

He  found  himself  in  a  room  about  ten  feet  square, 
dimly  lighted  by  a  small  window  at  the  top,  and  sur 
rounded  by  long  horizontal  niches.  The  floor,  which 
was  badly  broken  in  some  places,  was  of  stone.  God- 
dard  examined  the  place  carefully.  It  was  evidently 
an  old  vault  of  the  kind  formerly  built  above  ground 
for  the  lords  of  the  manor;  but  the  coffins,  if  there 
had  ever  been  any,  had  been  removed  elsewhere. 
Goddard  laughed  to  himself. 

"  I  might  stay  here  for  a  year,  if  I  could  get  any 
thing  to  eat,"  he  said  to  himself. 


xiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  211 


CHAPTEE   XIV. 

THE  squire  had  grown  used  to  the  position  in  which 
he  found  himself  after  Mary  Goddard  had  told  him 
her  story.  He  continued  his  visits  as  formerly,  and  it 
could  hardly  be  said  that  there  was  any  change  in  his 
manner  towards  her ;  there  was  no  need  of  any  change, 
for  even  at  the  time  when  he  contemplated  making 
her  his  wife  there  had  been  nothing  lover-like  in  his 
behaviour.  He  had  been  a  friend  and  had  treated  her 
with  all  the  respect  due  to  a  lonely  lady  who  was  his 
tenant,  and  even  with  a  certain  formality  which  had 
sometimes  seemed  unnecessary.  But  though  there  was 
no  apparent  alteration  in  his  mode  of  talking,  in  his 
habit  of  bringing  her  flowers  and  books  and  of  looking 
after  the  condition  of  the  cottage,  both  she  and  he 
were  perfectly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  they  under 
stood  each  other  much  better  than  before.  They  were 
united  by  the  common  bond  of  a  common  secret  which 
very  closely  concerned  one  of  them.  Things  were  not 
as  they  had  formerly  been.  Mrs.  Goddard  no  longer 
felt  that  she  had  anything  to  hide ;  the  squire  knew 
that  he  no  longer  had  anything  to  hope.  If  he  had 
been  a  selfish  man,  if  she  had  been  a  less  sensible 
woman,  their  friendship  might  have  ended  then  and 
there.  But  Mr.  Juxon  was  not  selfish,  and  Mary 
Goddard  did  not  lack  good  sense.  Having  ascertained 


212  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

that  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events  there  was  no 
possibility  of  ever  marrying  her,  the  squire  did  not  at 
once  give  her  over  and  go  elsewhere ;  on  the  contrary 
he  showed  himself  more  desirous  than  ever  of  assisting 
her  and  amusing  her.  He  was  a  patient  man ;  his 
day  might  come  yet,  if  Goddard  died.  It  did  not 
follow  that  if  he  could  not  marry  Mrs.  Goddard  he 
must  needs  marry  some  one  else ;  for  it  was  not  a  wife 
that  he  sought,  but  the  companionship  of  this  particular 
woman  as  his  wife.  If  he  could  not  marry  he  could 
still  enjoy  at  least  a  portion  of  that  companionship,  by 
visiting  her  daily  and  talking  with  her,  and  making 
himself  a  part  of  her  life.  He  judged  things  very 
coldly  and  lost  himself  in  no  lofty  nights  of  imagina 
tion.  It  was  better  that  he  should  enjoy  what  fell 
in  his  way  in  at  least  seeing  Mrs.  Goddard  and  pos 
sessing  her  friendship,  than  that  he  should  go  out  of 
his  course  in  order  to  marry  merely  for  the  sake  of 
marrying.  He  had  seen  so  much  of  the  active  side  of 
life  that  he  was  well  prepared  to  revel  in  the  peace 
which  had  fallen  to  his  lot.  He  cared  little  whether 
he  left  an  heir  to  the  park;  there  were  others  of 
the  name,  and  since  the  park  had  furnished  matter 
for  litigation  during  forty  years  before  he  came  into 
possession  of  it,  it  might  supply  the  lawyers  with  fees 
for  forty  years  more  after  his  death,  for  all  he  cared. 
It  would  have  been  very  desirable  to  marry  Mrs. 
Goddard  if  it  had  been  possible,  but  since  the  thing 
could  not  be  done  at  present  it  was  best  to  submit 
with  a  good  grace.  Since  the  day  when  his  suit  had 
suddenly  come  to  grief  in  the  discovery  of  her  real 
position,  Mr.  Juxon  had  philosophically  said  to  himself 
that  he  had  perhaps  been  premature  in  making  his 
proposal,  and  that  it  was  as  well  that  it  could  not  have 


xiv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          213 

been  accepted ;  perhaps  she  would  not  have  made  him 
a  good  wife;  perhaps  he  had  deceived  himself  in 
thinking  that  because  he  liked  her  and  desired  her 
friendship  he  really  wished  to  marry  her;  perhaps  all 
was  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds, 
after  all  and  in  spite  of  all. 

But  these  reflections,  which  tended  to  soothe  the 
squire's  annoyance  at  the  failure  of  a  scheme  which 
he  had  contemplated  with  so  much  delight,  did  not 
prevent  him  from  feeling  the  most  sincere  sympathy 
for  Mrs.  Goddard,  nor  from  constantly  wishing  that  he 
could  devise  some  plan  for  helping  her.  She  seemed 
never  to  have  thought  of  divorcing  herself  from  her 
husband.  The  squire  was  not  sure  whether  such  a 
thing  were  possible ;  he  doubted  it,  and  promised  him 
self  that  he  would  get  a  lawyer's  opinion  upon  the 
matter.  He  believed  that  English  law  did  not  grant 
divorces  on  account  of  the  husband's  being  sentenced 
to  any  limited  period  of  penal  servitude.  But  in  any 
case  it  would  be  a  very  delicate  subject  to  approach, 
and  Mr.  Juxon  amused  himself  by  constructing  con 
versations  in  his  mind  which  should  lead  up  to  this 
point  without  wounding  poor  Mrs.  Goddard's  sensibi 
lities.  He  was  the  kindest  of  men ;  he  would  not  for 
worlds  have  said  a  word  which  should  recall  to  her 
that  memorable  day  when  she  had  told  him  her  story. 
And  yet  it  would  be  quite  impossible  to  broach  such  a 
scheme  without  going  at  once  into  all  the  details  of 
the  chief  cause  of  her  sorrows.  The  consequence  was 
that  in  the  windings  of  his  imagination  the  squire 
found  himself  perpetually  turning  in  a  vicious  circle ; 
but  since  the  exercise  concerned  Mrs.  Goddard  and  her 
welfare  it  was  not  uncongenial.  He  founded  all  his 
vague  hopes  upon  one  expression  she  had  used.  When 


214  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

in  making  his  proposal  he  had  spoken  of  her  as  being 
a  widow,  she  had  said,  "  Would  to  God  that  I  were ! " 
She  had  said  it  with  such  vehemence  that  he  had  felt 
sure  that  if  she  had  indeed  been  a  widow  her  answer 
to  himself  would  have  been  favourable.  Men  easily 
retain  such  impressions  received  in  moments  of  great 
excitement,  and  found  hopes  upon  them. 

So  the  days  had  gone  by  cjid  the  squire  had  thought 
much  but  had  come  to  no  conclusion.  On  the  morn 
ing  when  Walter  Goddard  crept  into  the  disused  vault 
at  the  back  of  the  church,  the  squire  awoke  from  his 
sleep  at  his  usual  early  hour.  He  was  not  in  a  very 
good  humour,  if  so  equable  a  man  could  be  said  to  be 
subject  to  such  weaknesses  as  humours.  The  weather 
was  very  depressing — day  after  day  brought  only  more 
rain,  more  wind,  more  mud,  more  of  everything  dis 
agreeable.  The  previous  evening  had  been  unusually 
dull.  He  was  never  weary  of  being  with  Mary  God 
dard,  but  occasionally,  when  the  Ambroses  were  present, 
the  conversation  became  oppressive.  Mr.  Juxon  almost 
wished  that  John  Short  would  come  back  and  cause  a 
diversion.  His  views  concerning  John  had  undergone 
some  change  since  he  had  discovered  that  nobody 
could  marry  Mrs.  Goddard  because  she  was  married 
already.  He  believed  he  could  watch  John's  efforts 
to  attract  her  attention  with  indifference  now,  or  if 
without  indifference  with  a  charitable  forbearance. 
John  at  least  would  help  to  make  conversation,  and 
the  conversation  on  the  previous  evening  had  been  in 
tolerably  wearisome.  Almost  unconsciously,  since  the 
chief  interest  and  hope  of  his  daily  life  had  been 
removed  the  squire  began  to  long  for  a  change ;  he 
had  been  a  wanderer  by  profession  during  thirty  years 
of  his  life  and  he  was  perhaps  not  yet  old  enough  to 


XIV.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         215 

settle  into  that  absolute  indifference  to  novelty  which 
seems  to  characterise  retired  sailors. 

But  as  he  brushed  his  smooth  hair  and  combed  his 
beard  that  morning,  neither  change  nor  excitement 
were  very  far  from  him.  He  looked  over  his  dressing- 
glass  at  the  leafless  oaks  of  the  park,  at  the  gray 
sky  and  the  driving  rain  and  he  wished  something 
would  happen.  He  wished  somebody  might  die  and 
leave  a  great  library  to  be  sold,  that  he  might  indulge 
his  favourite  passion ;  he  wished  he  had  somebody 
stopping  in  the  Hall — he  almost  decided  to  send  and 
ask  the  vicar  to  come  to  lunch  and  have  a  day  among 
the  books.  As  he  entered  the  breakfast-room  at  pre 
cisely  half-past  eight  o'clock,  according  to  his  wont, 
the  butler  informed  him  that  Mr.  Gall,  the  village 
constable,  was  below  and  wanted  to  see  him  after 
breakfast.  He  received  the  news  in  silence  and  sat 
down  to  eat  his  breakfast  and  read  the  morning  paper. 
Gall  had  probably  come  about  some  petty  summons, 
or  to  ask  what  he  should  do  about  the  small  boys  who 
threw  stones  at  the  rooks  and  broke  the  church 
windows.  After  finishing  his  meal  and  his  paper 
in  the  leisurely  manner  peculiar  to  country  gentlemen 
who  have  nothing  to  do,  the  squire  rang  the  bell,  sent 
for  the  policeman  and  went  into  his  study,  a  small 
room  adjoining  the  library. 

Thomas  Gall,  constable,  was  a  tall  fair  man  with 
a  mild  eye  and  a  cheerful  face.  Goodwill  towards 
men  and  plentiful  good  living  had  done  their  work  in 
eradicating  from  the  good  man  all  that  stern  element 
which  might  have  been  most  useful  to  him  in  his 
career,  not  to  say  useful  to  the  State.  Each  rolling 
year  was  pricked  in  his  leathern  belt  with  a  new  hole 
as  his  heart  grew  more  peaceful  and  his  body  throve. 


216  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

He  had  a  goodly  girth  and  weighed  full  fifteen  stone 
in  his  uniform ;  his  mild  blue  eye  had  inspired  con 
fidence  in  a  maiden  of  Billingsfield  parish  and  Mrs. 
Gall  was  now  rearing  a  numerous  family  of  little 
Galls,  all  perhaps  destined  to  become  mild-eyed  and 
portly  village  constables  in  their  turn. 

The  squire,  who  was  not  destitute  of  a  sense  of 
humour,  never  thought  of  Mr.  Gall  without  a  smile, 
so  much  out  of  keeping  did  the  man's  occupation  seem 
with  his  jovial  humour.  Mr.  Gall,  he  said,  was  the 
kind  of  policeman  who  would  bribe  a  refractory  tramp 
to  move  on  by  the  present  of  a  pint  of  beer.  But 
Gall  had  a  good  point.  He  was  very  proud  of  his 
profession,  and  in  the  exercise  of  it  he  showed  a  dis 
cretion  which,  if  it  was  the  better  part  of  his  valour, 
argued  unlimited  natural  courage.  It  was  a  secret 
profession,  he  was  wont  to  say,  and  a  man  who  could 
not  keep  a  secret  would  never  do  for  a  constable. 
He  shrouded  his  ways  in  an  amiable  mystery  and 
walked  a  solitary  beat  on  fine  nights ;  when  the  nights 
were  not  fine  there  was  nobody  to  see  whether  he 
walked  his  beat  or  not.  Probably,  he  faithfully  ful 
filled  his  obligations ;  but  his  constitution  seemed 
to  bear  exposure  to  the  weather  wonderfully  well. 
Whether  he  ever  saw  anything  worth  mentioning  upon 
those  lonely  walks  of  his,  is  uncertain ;  at  all  events 
he  never  mentioned  anything  he  saw,  unless  it  was 
in  the  secrecy  of  the  reports  he  was  supposed  to 
transmit  from  time  to  time  to  his  superiors. 

On  the  present  occasion  as  he  entered  the  study, 
the  squire  observed  with  surprise  that  he  looked  grave. 
He  had  never  witnessed  such  a  phenomenon  before 
and  argued  that  it  was  just  possible  that  something  of 
real  importance  might  have  occurred. 


xiv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.          217 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gall,  approaching  the 
squire  respectfully,  after  carefully  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Gall.     Nothing  wrong,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  sir.  I  hope  not,  sir.  Only  a  little 
matter  of  business  Mr.  Juxon.  In  point  of  fact,  sir,  I 
wished  to  consult  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  squire  who  was  used  to  the  con 
stable's  method  of  circumlocution.  "  Yes — what  is  it?" 

"Well,  sir — it's  this,"  said  the  policeman,  running 
his  thumb  round  the  inside  of  his  belt  as  though  to 
test  the  pressure,  and  clearing  his  throat.  "  There  has 
been  a  general  order  sent  down  to  be  on  the  look-out, 
sir.  So  I  thought  it  would  be  best  to  take  your 
opinion." 

"  My  opinion,"  said  the  squire  with  great  gravity, 
"  is  that  if  you  are  directed  to  be  on  the  look-out,  you 
should  be  on  the  look-out ;  by  all  means.  What  are 
you  to  be  on  the  look-out  for  ? " 

"  In  point  of  fact,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  lowering 
his  voice,  "  we  are  informed  that  a  criminal  has  escaped 
from  Portland.  I  never  heard  of  a  convict  getting  out 
of  that  strong'old  o'  the  law,  sir,  and  I  would  like  to 
have  your  opinion  upon  it." 

"  But  if  you  are  informed  that  some  one  has  escaped," 
remarked  the  squire,  "you  had  better  take  it  for 
granted  that  it  is  true." 

"  Juss  so,  sir.  But  the  circumstances  wasn't  com 
municated  to  us,  sir ;  so  we  don't  know." 

Mr.  Gall  paused,  and  the  squire  smoothed  his  hair 
a  little. 

"  Well,  Gall,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "  have  you  any  reason 
for  believing  that  this  escaped  convict  is  likely  to  come 
this  way  ? " 


218  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"Well  sir,  there  is  some  evidence,"  answered  the 
policeman,  mysteriously.  "  Leastways  what  seems  like 
evidence  to  me,  sir." 

"  Of  what  kind  ? "  the  squire  fixed  his  quiet  eyes  on 
Mr.  Gall's  face. 

"  His  name,  sir.  The  name  of  the  convict.  There 
is  a  party  of  that  name  residin'  here." 

The  squire  suddenly  guessed  what  was  coming,  or  at 
least  a  possibility  of  it  crossed  his  mind.  If  Mr.  Gall 
had  been  a  more  observant  man  he  would  have  seen 
that  Mr.  Juxon  grew  a  shade  paler  and  changed  one 
leg  over  the  other  as  he  sat.  But  in  that  moment  he 
had  time  to  nerve  himself  for  the  worst. 

"  And  what  is  the  name,  if  you  please  ? "  he  asked 
calmly. 

"  The  name  in  the  general  orders  is  Goddard,  sir — 
Walter  Goddard.  He  was  convicted  of  forgery  three 
years  ago,  sir,  a  regular  bad  lot.  But  discretion  is  re 
commended  in  the  orders,  sir,  as  the  business  is  not 
wanted  to  get  into  the  papers." 

The  squire  was  ready.  If  Gall  did  not  know  that 
Mary  Goddard  was  the  wife  of  the  convict  Walter,  he 
should  certainly  not  find  it  out.  In  any  other  country 
of  Europe  that  would  have  been  the  first  fact  com 
municated  to  the  local  police.  Very  likely,  thought 
Mr.  Juxon,  nobody  knew  it. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  he  said  very  slowly,  "  that  the  fact 
of  there  being  a  Mrs.  Goddard  residing  here  in  the 
least  proves  that  she  is  any  relation  to  this  criminal. 
The  name  is  not  so  uncommon  as  that,  you  know." 

"  Nor  I  either,  sir.  In  point  of  fact,  sir,  I  was  only 
thinking.  It's  what  you  may  call  a  striking  coinci 
dence,  that's  all." 

"  It  would   have   been  a  still  more  striking   coin- 


xiv.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         219 

cidence  if  his  name  had  been  Juxon  like  mine,  or 
Ambrose  like  the  vicar's,"  said  the  squire  calmly. 
"  There  are  other  people  of  the  name  in  England,  and 
the  local  policemen  will  be  warned  to  be  on  the  look 
out.  If  this  fellow  was  called  Juxon  instead  of 
Goddard,  Gall,  would  you  be  inclined  to  think  he  was 
a  relation  of  mine  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  sir.  Ha !  ha !  Very  good  sir !  Very  good 
indeed  !  No  indeed,  sir,  and  she  such  a  real  lady  too  ! " 

"  Well  then,  I  do  not  see  that  you  can  do  anything 
more  than  keep  a  sharp  look-out.  I  suppose  they 
sent  you  some  kind  of  description  ? " 

"  Well,  yes.  There  was  a  kind  of  a  description  as 
you  say,  sir,  but  I'm  not  anyways  sure  of  recognising 
the  party  by  it.  In  point  of  fact,  sir,  the  description 
says  the  convict  is  a  fair  man." 

"  Is  that  aU  ? " 

"Neither  particular  tall,  nor  yet  particular  short, 
sir.  Not  a  very  big  'un  nor  a  very  little  'un,  sir.  In 
point  of  fact,  sir,  a  fair  man.  Clean  shaved  and  close 
cropped  he  is,  sir,  being  a  criminal." 

"  I  hope  you  may  recognise  him  by  that  account," 
said  the  squire,  suppressing  a  smile.  "  I  don't  believe 
I  should." 

"  Well,  sir,  it  does  say  as  he's  a  fair  man,"  remarked 
the  constable. 

"Supposing  he  blacked  his  face  and  passed  for  a 
chimney-sweep  ? "  suggested  the  squire.  The  idea 
seemed  to  unsettle  Gall's  views. 

"  In  that  case,  sir,  I  don't  know  as  I  should  know 
him,  for  certain,"  he  answered. 

"  Probably  not — probably  not,  Gall.  And  judging 
from  the  account  they  have  sent  you  I  don't  think 
you  would  be  to  blame." 


220  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  Leastways  it  can't  be  said  as  I've  failed  to  carry 
out  superior  instructions/'  replied  Mr.  Gall,  proudly. 
"Then  it's  your  opinion,  sir,  that  I'd  better  keep  a 
sharp  look-out  ?  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  so, 
sir  ? " 

"  Quite  so,"  returned  the  squire  with  great  calmness. 
"  By  all  means  keep  a  sharp  look-out,  and  be  careful 
to  be  discreet,  as  the  orders  instruct  you." 

"You  may  trust  me  for  that,  sir,"  said  the  police 
man,  who  dearly  loved  the  idea  of  mysterious  import 
ance.  "Then  I  wish  you  good  morning,  sir."  He 
prepared  to  go. 

"Good  morning,  Gall — good  morning.  The  butler 
will  give  you  some  ale." 

Again  Mr.  Gall  passed  his  thumb  round  the  inside 
of  his  belt,  testing  the  local  pressure  in  anticipation  of 
a  pint.  He  made  a  sort  of  half-military  salute  at  the 
door  and  went  out.  When  the  squire  was  alone  he 
rose  from  his  chair  and  paced  the  room,  giving  way  to 
the  agitation  he  had  concealed  in  the  presence  of  the 
constable.  He  was  very  much  disturbed  at  the  news 
of  Goddard's  escape,  as  well  he  might  be.  Not  that 
he  was  aware  that  the  convict  knew  of  his  wife's 
whereabouts ;  he  did  not  even  suppose  that  Goddard 
could  ascertain  for  some  time  where  she  was  living, 
still  less  that  he  would  boldly  present  himself  in 
Billingsfield.  But  it  was  bad  enough  to  know  that 
the  man  was  again  at  large.  So  long  as  he  was  safely 
lodged  in  prison,  Mrs.  Goddard  was  herself  safe ;  but 
if  once  he  regained  his  liberty  and  baffled  the  police 
he  would  certainly  end  by  finding  out  Mary's  address 
and  there  was  no  telling  to  what  annoyance,  to  what 
danger,  to  what  sufferings  she  might  be  exposed 
Here  was  a  new  interest,  indeed,  and  one  which  pro- 


xiv.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         221 

mised  to  afford  the  squire  occupation  until  the  fellow 
was  caught. 

Mr.  Juxon  knew  that  he  was  right  in  putting  the 
policeman  off  the  track  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Goddard. 
He  himself  was  a  better  detective  than  Gall,  for  he 
went  daily  to  the  cottage  and  if  anything  was  wrong 
there,  was  quite  sure  to  discover  it.  If  Goddard  ever 
made  his  way  to  Billingsfield  it  could  only  be  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  his  wife,  and  if  he  succeeded  in  this, 
Mrs.  Goddard  could  not  conceal  it  from  the  squire. 
She  was  a  nervous  woman  who  could  not  hide  her 
emotions;  she  would  find  herself  in  a  terrible  difficulty 
and  she  would  perhaps  turn  to  her  friend  for  assist 
ance.  If  Mr.  Juxon  could  lay  his  hands  on  Goddard, 
he  flattered  himself  he  was  much  more  able  to  arrest 
a  desperate  man  than  mild-eyed  Policeman  Gall.  He 
had  not  been  at  sea  for  thirty  years  in  vain,  and  in 
his  time  he  had  handled  many  a  rough  customer.  He 
debated  however  upon  the  course  he  should  pursue. 
As  in  his  opinion  it  was  unlikely  that  Goddard  would 
find  out  his  wife  for  some  time,  and  improbable  that 
he  would  waste  such  precious  time  in  looking  for  her, 
it  seemed  far  from  advisable-  to  warn  her  that  the 
felon  had  escaped.  On  the  other  hand  he  mistrusted 
his  own  judgment ;  if  she  were  not  prepared  it  was  just 
possible  that  the  man  should  come  upon  her  unawares, 
and  the  shock  of  seeing  him  might  be  very  much 
worse  than  the  shock  of  being  told  that  he  was  at 
large.  He  might  consult  the  vicar. 

At  first,  the  old  feeling  that  it  would  be  disloyal  to 
Mrs.  Goddard  even  to  hint  to  Mr.  Ambrose  that  he 
was  acquainted  with  her  story  withheld  him  from  pur 
suing  such  a  course.  But  as  he  turned  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind  it  seemed  to  him  that  since  it  was 


222         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 

directly  for  her  good,  lie  would  now  be  justified  in 
speaking.  He  liked  the  vicar  and  he  trusted  him. 
He  knew  that  the  vicar  had  been  a  good  friend  to 
Mrs.  Goddard  and  that  he  would  stand  by  her  in  any 
difficulty  so  far  as  he  might  be  able.  The  real 
question  was  how  to  make  sure  that  the  vicar  should 
not  tell  his  wife.  If  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  the  least 
suspicion  that  anything  unusual  was  occurring,  she 
would  naturally  try  and  extract  information  from  her 
husband,  and  she  would  probably  be  successful ; 
women,  the  squire  thought,  very  generally  succeed 
in  operations  of  that  kind.  But  if  once  Mr.  Ambrose 
could  be  consulted  without  arousing  his  wife's  sus 
picions,  he  was  a  man  to  be  trusted.  Thereupon  Mr. 
Juxon  wrote  a  note  to  the  vicar,  saying  that  he  had 
something  of  great  interest  to  show  him,  and  begging 
that,  if  not  otherwise  engaged,  he  would  come  up  to 
the  Hall  to  lunch.  When  he  had  despatched  his 
messenger,  being  a  man  of  his  word,  he  went  into  the 
library  to  hunt  for  some  rare  volume  or  manuscript 
which  the  vicar  had  not  yet  seen,  and  which  might 
account  in  a  spirit  of  rigid  veracity  for  the  excuse  he 
had  given.  Meanwhile,  as  he  turned  over  his  rare  and 
curious  folios  he  debated  further  upon  his  conduct ;  but 
having  once  made  up  his  mind  to  consult  Mr.  Ambrose, 
he  determined  to  tell  him  boldly  what  had  occurred, 
after  receiving  from  him  a  promise  of  secrecy.  The 
messenger  brought  back  word  that  the  vicar  would  be 
delighted  to  come,  and  at  the  hour  named  the  sound 
of  wheels  upon  the  gravel  announced  the  arrival  of 
Strawberry,  the  old  mare,  drawing  behind  her  the 
vicar  and  his  aged  henchman,  Eeynolds,  in  the  tradi 
tional  vicarage  dogcart.  A  moment  later  the  vicar 
entered  the  library. 


XIV.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         223 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  said  the 
squire  in  hospitable  tones.  "  I  have  something  to 
show  you  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you."  The 
two  shook  hands  heartily.  Independently  of  kindred 
scholarly  tastes,  they  were  sympathetic  to  each  other 
and  were  always  glad  to  meet. 

"  It  is  just  the  weather  for  bookworms,"  answered 
the  vicar  in  cheerful  tones.  "  Dear  me,  I  never  come 
here  without  envying  you  and  wishing  that  life  were 
one  long  rainy  afternoon." 

"  You  know  I  am  inclined  to  think  I  am  rather  an 
enviable  person,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  slowly  passing  his 
hand  over  his  glossy  hair  and  leading  his  guest  towards 
a  large  table  near  the  fire.  Several  volumes  lay  to 
gether  upon  the  polished  mahogany.  The  squire  laid 
his  hand  on  one  of  them. 

"  I  have  not  deceived  you,"  he  said.  "  That  is  a 
very  interesting  volume.  It  is  the  black  letter  Para 
celsus  I  once  spoke  of.  I  have  succeeded  in  getting 
it  at  last." 

"  Dear  me  !  What  a  piece  of  fortune  ! "  said  Mr. 
Ambrose  bending  down  until  his  formidable  nose 
almost  touched  the  ancient  page. 

'"Yes,"  said  the  squire,  "uncommonly  lucky  as 
usual.  Now,  excuse  my  abruptness  in  changing  the 
subject — I  want  to  consult  you  upon  an  important 
matter." 

The  vicar  looked  up  quickly  with  that  vague,  far 
away  expression  which  comes  into  the  eyes  of  a 
student  when  he  is  suddenly  called  away  from  con 
templating  some  object  of  absorbing  interest. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  certainly  —  a  —  by  all 
means." 

"  It  is  about  Mrs.  Goddard,"  said  the  squire,  looking 


224  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

hard  at  his  visitor.  "Of  course  it  is  between  ourselves," 
he  added. 

The  vicar's  long  upper  lip  descended  upon  its  fellow 
and  he  bent  his  rough  gray  eyebrows,  returning  Mr. 
Juxon's  sharp  look  with  interest.  He  could  not 
imagine  what  the  squire  could  have  to  say  about  Mrs. 
Goddard,  unless,  like  poor  John,  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her  and  wanted  to  marry  her ;  which  appeared 
improbable. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said  sharply. 

"  I  daresay  you  do  not  know  that  I  am  acquainted 
with  her  story,"  began  Mr.  Juxon.  "  Do  not  be  sur 
prised.  She  saw  fit  to  tell  it  me  herself." 

"  Indeed  ? "  exclaimed  the  vicar  in  considerable 
astonishment.  In  that  case,  he  argued  quickly,  Mr. 
Juxon  was  not  thinking  of  marrying  her. 

"  Yes — it  is  not  necessary  to  go  into  that,"  said  Mr. 
Juxpn  quickly.  "The  thing  I  want  to  tell  you  is 
this — Goddard  the  forger  has  escaped " 

"  Escaped  ?  "  echoed  the  vicar  in  real  alarm.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  so  ! " 

"  Gall  the  constable  came  here  this  morning,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  Juxton.  "  He  told  me  that  there  were 
general  orders  out  for  his  arrest." 

"  How  in  the  world  did  he  get  out  ?  "  cried  the  vicar. 
"  I  thought  nobody  was  ever  known  to  escape  from 
Portland ! " 

"  So  did  I.  But  this  fellow  has — somehow.  Gall 
did  not  know.  Now,  the  question  is,  what  is  to  be 
done  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  vicar, 
thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  marching  to 
the  window,  the  wide  skirts  of  his  coat  seeming  to 
wave  with  agitation  as  he  walked. 


nv.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         225 

Mr.  Juxon  also  put  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  but 
he  stood  still  upon  the  hearth-rug  and  looked  at  the 
ceiling,  softly  whistling  a  little  tune,  a  habit  he  had 
in  moments  of  great  anxiety.  For  three  or  four 
minutes  neither  of  the  two  spoke. 

"Would  you  tell  Mrs.  Goddard — or  not?"  asked 
Mr.  Juxon  at  last. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  vicar.  "I  am  amazed 
beyond  measure."  He  turned  and  slowly  came  back 
to  the  table. 

"  I  don't  know  either,"  replied  the  squire.  "  That 
is  precisely  the  point  upon  which  I  think  we  ought  to 
decide.  I  have  known  about  the  story  for  some  time, 
but  I  did  not  anticipate  that  it  would  take  this 
turn." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose  after  another  pause, 
"  I  think  that  if  there  is  any  likelihood  of  the  fellow 
finding  her  out,  we  ought  to  tell  her.  If  not  I  think 
we  had  better  wait  until  he  is  caught.  He  is  sure  to 
be  caught,  of  course." 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  you,"  returned  Mr.  Juxon. 
"  Only — how  on  earth  are  we  to  find  out  whether  he 
is  likely  to  come  here  or  not  ?  If  any  one  knows 
where  he  is,  he  is  as  good  as  caught  already.  If 
nobody  knows,  we  can  certainly  have  no  means  of 
telling." 

The  argument  was  unanswerable.  Again  there  was 
a  long  silence.  The  vicar  walked  about  the  room  in 
great  perplexity. 

"  Dear  me  !  Dear  me  !  What  a  terrible  business ! " 
he  repeated,  over  and  over  again. 

"  Do  you  think  we  are  called  upon  to  do  anything  ? " 
he  asked  at  last,  stopping  in  his  walk  immediately  in 
front  of  Mr.  Juxon. 

Q 


226  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  If  we  can  do  anything  to  save  Mrs.  Goddard  from 
annoyance  or  further  trouble,  we  are  undoubtedly 
called  upon  to  do  it,"  replied  the  squire.  "  If  that 
wretch  finds  her  out,  he  will  try  to  break  into  the 
cottage  at  night  and  force  her  to  give  him  money." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  Dear  me  !  I  hope  he 
will  do  no  such  thing ! " 

"  So  do  I,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  with  a  grim 
smile.  "  But  if  he  finds  her  out,  he  will.  I  almost 
think  it  would  be  better  to  tell  her  in  any  case." 

"  But  think  of  the  anxiety  she  will  be  in  until  he  is 
caught ! "  cried  the  vicar.  "  She  will  be  expecting  him 
every  day — every  night.  Well — I  suppose  we  might 
tell  Gall  to  watch  the  house." 

"  That  will  not  do,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  firmly.  "  It 
would  be  a  great  injustice  to  allow  Gall  or  any  of  the 
people  in  the  village  to  know  anything  about  her. 
She  might  be  subjected  to  all  kinds  of  insult.  You 
know  what  these  people  are.  A  '  real  lady/  who  is  at 
the  same  time  the  wife  of  a  convict,  is  a  thing  they 
can  hardly  understand.  I  am  sure  both  you  and  I 
secretly  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have  shown  an 
unusual  amount  of  good  sense  and  generosity  in  under 
standing  her  position  as  we  do." 

"  I  daresay  we  do,"  said  the  vicar  with  a  smile.  He 
was  too  honest  to  deny  it.  "  Indeed  it  took  me  some 
time  to  get  used  to  the  idea  myself." 

"  Precisely.  The  village  people  would  never  get 
used  to  it.  Of  all  things  to  do,  we  should  certainly 
not  tell  Gall,  who  is  an  old  woman  and  a  great 
chatterbox.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  his  state 
ment  this  morning — it  filled  me  with  admiration 
for  the  local  police,  I  assure  you.  But — I  think  it 
would  be  better  to  tell  her.  I  did  not  think  so  before 


xiv.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.         227 

you  came,  I  believe.  But  talking  always  brings  the 
truth  out." 

The  vicar  hesitated,  rising  and  falling  upon  his 
toes  and  heels  in  profound  thought,  after  his  manner. 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Will 
you  do  it  ?  Or  shaU  I  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not,"  said  the  squire,  thoughtfully. 
"You  know  her  better,  you  have  known  her  much 
longer  than  I." 

"  But  she  will  ask  me  where  I  heard  of  it,"  objected 
the  vicar.  "  I  shall  be  obliged  to  say  that  you  told 
me.  That  will  be  as  bad  as  though  you  told  her  your 
self." 

"  You  need  not  say  you  heard  it  from  me.  You 
can  say  that  Gall  has  received  instructions  to  look  out 
for  Goddard.  She  will  not  question  you  any  further, 
I  am  sure." 

"  I  would  much  rather  that  you  told  her,  Mr. 
Juxon,"  said  the  vicar. 

"  I  would  much  rather  that  you  told  her,  Mr. 
Ambrose,"  said  the  squire,  almost  in  the  same  breath. 
Both  laughed  a  little. 

"  Not  that  I  would  not  do  it  at  once,  if  necessary," 
added  Mr.  Juxou. 

"  Or  I,  in  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  Of  course,"  returned  Mr.  Juxon.  "  Only  it  is  such 
a  very  delicate  matter,  you  see." 

"  Dear  me,  yes,"  murmured  the  vicar,  "  a  most 
delicate  matter.  Poor  lady  ! " 

"  Poor  lady  ! "  echoed  the  squire.  "  But  I  suppose 
it  must  be  done." 

"  Oh  yes — we  cannot  do  otherwise,"  answered  Mr. 
Ambrose,  still  hoping  that  his  companion  would 
volunteer  to  perform  the  disagreeable  office. 


228         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.        CHAP. 

"  Well  then,  will  you — will  you  do  it  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Juxon,  anxious  to  have  the  matter  decided. 

"  Why  not  go  together  ?  "  suggested  the  vicar. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  firmly.  "  It  would  be  an 
intolerable  ordeal  for  the  poor  woman.  I  think  I  see 
your  objection.  Perhaps  you  think  that  Mrs. 
Ambrose " 

"Exactly,  Mrs.  Ambrose,"  echoed  the  vicar  with  a 
grim  smile. 

"  Oh  precisely — then  I  will  do  it,"  said  the  squire. 
And  he  forthwith  did,  and  was  very  much  surprised  at 
the  result. 


XV.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  229 


CHAPTER    XY. 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Mr.  Juxon  walked 
down  towards  the  cottage,  accompanied  by  the  vicar. 
In  spite  of  their  mutual  anxiety  to  be  of  service  to 
Mrs.  Goddard,  when  they  had  once  decided  how  to  act 
they  had  easily  fallen  into  conversation  about  other 
matters,  the  black  letter  Paracelsus  had  received  its 
full  share  of  attention  and  many  another  rare  volume 
had  been  brought  out  and  examined.  Neither  the 
vicar  nor  his  host  believed  that  there  was  any  hurry ; 
if  Goddard  ever  succeeded  in  getting  to  Billingsfield 
it  would  not  be  to-day,  nor  to-morrow  either. 

The  weather  had  suddenly  changed ;  the  east  was 
already  clear  and  over  the  west,  where  the  sun  was 
setting  in  a  fiery  mist,  the  huge  clouds  were  banked 
up  against  the  bright  sky,  fringed  with  red  and  purple, 
but  no  longer  threatening  rain  or  snow.  The  air  was 
sharp  and  the  plentiful  mud  in  the  roads  was  already 
crusted  with  a  brittle  casing  of  ice. 

The  squire  took  leave  of  Mr.  Ambrose  at  the 
turning  where  the  road  led  into  the  village  and  then 
walked  back  to  the  cottage.  Even  his  solid  nerves 
were  a  little  unsettled  at  the  prospect  of  the  interview 
before  him ;  but  he  kept  a  stout  heart  and  asked  for 
Mrs.  Goddard  in  his  usual  quiet  voice.  Martha  told 
him  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  a  bad  headache,  but  on 


230  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

inquiry  found  that  she  would  see  the  squire.  He 
entered  the  drawing-room  softly  and  went  forward  to 
greet  her ;  she  was  sitting  in  a  deep  chair  propped  by 
cushions. 

Mary  Goddard  had  spent  a  miserable  day.  The 
gray  morning  light  seemed  to  reveal  her  troubles  and 
fears  in  a  new  and  more  terrible  aspect.  During  the 
long  hours  of  darkness  it  seemed  as  though  those 
things  were  mercifully  hidden  which  the  strong  glare 
of  day  must  inevitably  reveal,  and  when  the  night  was 
fairly  past  she  thought  all  the  world  must  surely  know 
that  Walter  Goddard  had  escaped  and  that  his  wife 
had  seen  him.  Hourly  she  expected  a  ringing  at  the 
bell,  announcing  the  visit  of  a  party  of  detectives  on 
his  track;  every  sound  startled  her  and  her  nerves 
were  strung  to  such  a  pitch  that  she  heard  with  super 
natural  acuteness.  She  had  indeed  two  separate  causes 
for  fear.  The  one  was  due  to  her  anxiety  for  God- 
dard's  safety;  the  other  to  her  apprehensions  for 
Nellie.  She  had  long  determined  that  at  all  hazards 
the  child  must  be  kept  from  the  knowledge  of  her 
father's  disgrace,  by  being  made  to  believe  in  his 
death.  It  was  a  falsehood  indeed,  but  such  a  false 
hood  as  may  surely  be  forgiven  to  a  woman  as  un 
happy  as  Mary  Goddard.  It  seemed  monstrous  that 
the  innocent  child,  who  seemed  not  even  to  have 
inherited  her  father's  looks  or  temper,  should  be 
brought  up  with  the  perpetual  sense  of  her  disgrace 
before  her,  should  be  forced  to  listen  to  explanations 
of  her  father's  crimes  and  tutored  to  the  comprehension 
of  an  inherited  shame.  From  the  first  Mary  Goddard 
had  concealed  the  whole  matter  from  the  little  girl, 
and  when  Walter  was  at  last  convicted,  she  had  told 
her  that  her  father  was  dead.  Dead  he  might  be,  she 


XV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.         231 

thought,  before  twelve  years  were  out,  and  Nellie 
would  be  none  the  wiser.  In  twelve  years  from  the 
time  of  his  conviction  Nellie  would  be  in  her  twenty- 
first  year;  if  it  were  ever  necessary  to  tell  her,  it 
would  be  time  enough  then,  for  the  girl  would  have 
at  least  enjoyed  her  youth,  free  of  care  and  of  the 
horrible  consciousness  of  a  great  crime  hanging  over 
her  head.  No  child  could  grow  up  in  such  a  state  as 
that  implied.  No  mind  could  develop  healthily  under 
the  perpetual  pressure  of  so  hideous  a  secret;  from 
her  earliest  childhood  her  impressions  would  be  warped, 
her  imagination  darkened  and  her  mental  growth 
stunted.  It  would  be  a  great  cruelty  to  tell  her  the 
truth ;  it  was  a  great  mercy  to  tell  her  the  falsehood. 
It  was  no  selfish  timidity  which  had  prompted  Mary 
Goddard,  but  a  carefully  weighed  consideration  for  the 
welfare  of  her  child. 

If  now,  within  these  twenty -four  hours,  Nellie 
should  discover  who  the  poor  tramp  was,  who  had 
frightened  her  so  much  on  the  previous  evening,  all 
this  would  be  at  an  end.  The  child's  life  would  be 
made  desolate  for  ever.  She  would  never  recover 
from  the  shock,  and  to  injure  lovely  Nellie  so  bitterly 
would  be  worse  to  Mary  Goddard  than  to  be  obliged 
to  bear  the  sharpest  suffering  herself.  For,  from  the 
day  when  she  had  waked  to  a  comprehension  of  her 
husband's  baseness,  the  love  for  her  child  had  taken  in 
her  breast  the  place  of  the  love  for  Walter. 

She  did  not  think  connectedly ;  she  did  not  realise 
her  fears ;  she  was  almost  wholly  unstrung.  But  she 
had  procured  the  fifty  pounds  her  husband  required 
and  she  waited  for  the  night  with  a  dull  hope  that  all 
might  yet  be  well — as  well  as  anything  so  horrible 
could  be.  If  only  her  husband  were  not  caught  in 


232  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Billingsfield  it  would  not  be  so  bad,  perhaps.  And 
yet  it  may  be  that  her  wisest  course  would  have  been 
to  betray  him  that  very  night.  Many  just  men  would 
have  said  so;  but  there  are  few  women  who  would 
do  it.  There  are  few  indeed,  so  stony-hearted  as  to 
betray  a  man  once  loved  in  such  a  case ;  and  Mary 
Goddard  in  her  wildest  fear  never  dreamed  of  giving 
up  the  fugitive.  She  sat  all  day  in  her  chair,  wishing 
that  the  day  were  over,  praying  that  she  might  be  spared 
any  further  suffering  or  that  at  least  it  might  be 
spared  to  her  child  whom  she  so  loved.  She  had 
sent  Nellie  down  to  the  vicarage  with  Martha.  Mrs. 
Ambrose  loved  Nellie  better  than  she  loved  Nellie's 
mother,  and  there  was  a  standing  invitation  for  her 
to  spend  the  afternoons  at  the  vicarage.  Nellie  said 
her  mother  had  a  terrible  headache  and  wanted  to 
be  alone. 

But  when  the  squire  came  Mrs.  Goddard  thought  it 
wiser  to  see  him.  She  had,  of  course,  no  intention  of 
confiding  to  him  an  account  of  the  events  of  the  pre 
vious  night,  but  she  felt  that  if  she  could  talk  to  him 
for  half  an  hour  she  would  be  stronger.  He  was  him 
self  so  strong  and  honest  that  he  inspired  her  with 
courage.  She  knew,  also,  that  if  she  were  driven  to 
the  extremity  of  confiding  in  any  one  she  would  choose 
Mr.  Juxon  rather  than  Mr.  Ambrose.  The  vicar  had 
been  her  first  friend  and  she  owed  him  much ;  but  the 
squire  had  won  her  confidence  by  his  noble  generosity 
after  she  had  told  him  her  story.  She  said  to  herself 
that  he  was  more  of  a  man  than  the  vicar.  And  now 
he  had  come  to  her  at  the  time  of  her  greatest  distress, 
and  she  was  glad  to  see  himT 

Mr.  Juxon  entered  the  room  softly,  feeling  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  sick  person.  Mrs.  Goddard 


xv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  233 

turned  her  pathetic  face  towards  him  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  trying  to  seem 
cheerful. 

"I  fear  you  are  ill,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  answered  the 
squire,  looking  at  her  anxiously  and  then  seating  him 
self  by  her  side.  "  Martha  told  me  you  had  a  head 
ache — I  hope  it  is  not  serious." 

"  Oh  no — not  serious.  Only  a  headache,"  she  said 
with  a  smile  so  unlike  her  own  that  Mr.  Juxon  began 
to  feel  nervous.  His  resolution  to  tell  her  his  errand 
began  to  waver ;  it  seemed  cruel,  he  thought,  to  dis 
turb  a  person  who  was  evidently  so  ill  with  a  matter 
so  serious.  He  remembered  that  she  had  almost 
fainted  on  a  previous  occasion  when  she  had  spoken 
to  him  of  her  husband.  She  had  not  been  ill  then ; 
there  was  no  knowing  what  the  effect  of  a  shock  to 
her  nerves  might  .be  at  present.  He  sat  still  in 
silence  for  some  moments,  twisting  his  hat  upon  his 
knee. 

"  Do  not  be  disturbed  about  me,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard 
presently.  "It  will  pass  very  quickly.  I  shall  be 
quite  well  to-morrow — I  hope,"  she  added  with  a 
shudder. 

"  I  am  very  much  disturbed  about  you,"  returned 
Mr.  Juxon  in  an  unusually  grave  tone.  Mrs.  Goddard 
looked  at  him  quickly,  and  was  surprised  when  she 
saw  the  expression  on  his  face.  He  looked  sad,  and 
at  the  same  time  perplexed. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  be ! "  she  exclaimed  as  though 
deprecating  further  remark  upon  her  ill  health. 

"  I  wish  I  knew,"  said  the  squire  with  some  hesita 
tion,  "  whether — whether  you  are  really  very  ill.  I 
mean,  of  course,  I  know  you  have  a  bad  headache,  a 


234  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

very  bad  headache,  as  I  can  see.  But — indeed,  Mrs. 
Goddard,  I  have  something  of  importance  to  say," 

"Something  of  importance?"  she  repeated,  staring 
hard  at  him. 

"Yes — but  it  will  keep  till  to-morrow,  if  you 
would  rather  not  hear  it  now,"  he  replied,  looking  at 
her  doubtfully. 

"I  would  rather  hear  it  now,"  she  answered  after 
some  seconds  of  silence.  Her  heart  beat  fast. 

"  You  were  good  enough  some  time  ago  to  tell  me 
about — Mr.  Goddard,"  began  Mr.  Juxon  in  woful 
trepidation. 

"Yes,"  answered  his  companion  under  her  breath. 
Her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  together  upon  her 
knees  and  her  eyes  sought  the  squire's  anxiously  and 
then  looked  away  again  in  fear. 

"  Well,  it  is  about  him,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon  in  a 
gentle  voice.  "  Would  you  rather  put  it  off  ?  It  is 
— well,  rather  startling." 

Mrs.  Goddard  closed  her  eyes,  like  a  person  ex 
pecting  to  suffer  some  terrible  pain.  She  thought 
Mr.  Juxon  was  going  to  tell  her  that  Walter  had  been 
captured  in  the  village. 

"  Mr.  Goddard  has  escaped,"  said  the  squire,  making 
a  bold  plunge  with  the  whole  truth.  The  sick  lady 
trembled  violently,  and  unclasping  her  hands  laid 
them  upon  the  arms  of  her  chair  as  though  to  steady 
herself  to  bear  the  worse  shock  to  come.  But  Mr. 
Juxon  was  silent.  He  had  told  her  all  he  knew. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly.  "  Is  there  anything — 
anything  more?"  Her  voice  was  barely  audible  in 
the  still  and  dusky  room. 

"No — except  that,  of  course,  there  are  orders  out 
for  his  arrest,  all  over  the  country." 


xv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         235 

"He  has  not  been  arrested  yet?"  asked  Mrs.  God- 
dard.  She  had  expected  to  hear  that  he  was  caught ; 
she  thought  the  squire  was  trying  to  break  the  shock 
of  the  news.  Her  courage  rose  a  little  now. 

"  No,  he  is  not  arrested — but  I  have  no  doubt  he 
soon  will  be,"  added  Mr.  Juxon  in  a  tone  intended  to 
convey  encouragement. 

"  How  did  you  hear  this  ? " 

"  Gall  the  policeman,  told  me  this  morning.  I — I 
am  afraid  I  have  something  else  to  confess  to  you, 
Mrs.  Goddard,  I  trust  you  will  not " 

"  What  ? "  she  asked  so  suddenly  as  to  startle  him. 
Walter  might  have  been  heard  of  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  perhaps. 

"  I  think  I  was  right,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon.  "  I 
hope  you  will  forgive  me.  It  does  not  seem  quite 
loyal,  but  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I  consulted 
the  vicar  as  to  whether  we  should  tell  you." 

"  The  vicar  ?  What  did  he  say  ? "  Again  Mrs. 
Goddard  felt  relieved. 

"  He  quite  agreed  with  me,"  answered  the  squire. 
"  You  see  we  feared  that  Mr.  Goddard  might  find  his 
way  here  and  come  upon  you  suddenly.  We  thought 
you  would  be  terribly  pained  and  startled." 

Mrs.  Goddard  could  almost  have  laughed  at  that 
moment.  The  excellent  man  had  taken  all  this 
trouble  in  order  to  save  her  from  the  very  thing 
which  had  already  occurred  on  the  previous  night. 
There  was  a  bitter  humour  in  the  situation,  in  the 
squire's  kind-hearted  way  of  breaking  to  her  that 
news  which  she  already  knew  so  well,  in  his  willing 
ness  to  put  off  telling  her  until  the  morrow.  What 
would  Mr.  Juxon  say,  could  he  guess  that  she  had 
herself  already  spoken  with  her  husband  and  had  pro- 


236  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

mised  to  see  him  again  that  very  night !  Forgetting 
that  his  last  words  required  an  answer,  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  and  again  folded  her  hands  before 
her.  Her  eyes  were  half  closed  and  from  beneath  the 
drooping  lids  she  gazed  through  the  gathering  gloom 
at  the  squire's  anxious  face. 

"  I  hope  you  think  I  did  right,"  said  the  latter  in 
considerable  doubt. 

"  Quite  right.  I  think  you  were  both  very  kind  to 
think  of  me  as  you  did,"  said  she. 

"  I  am  sure,  I  always  think  of  you,"  answered  Mr. 
Juxon  simply.  "  I  hope  that  this  thing  will  have  no 
further  consequences.  Of  course,  until  we  know  of 
Mr.  Goddard's  whereabouts  we  shall  feel  very  anxious. 
It  seems  probable  that  if  he  can  get  here  unobserved 
he  will  do  so.  He  will  probably  ask  you  for  some 
money." 

"  Do  you  really  think  he  could  get  here  at  all  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Goddard.  She  wanted  to  hear  what  he 
would  say,  for  she  thought  she  might  judge  from  his 
words  whether  her  husband  ran  any  great  risk. 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  the  squire.  "  I  think  it  is  very 
improbable.  I  fear  this  news  has  sadly  disturbed  you, 
Mrs.  Goddard,  but  let  us  hope  all  may  turn  out  for 
the  best."  Indeed  he  thought  she  showed  very  little 
surprise,  though  she  had  evidently  been  much  moved. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  accustomed  to  expect  that  her 
husband  might  one  day  escape.  She  was  ill,  too,  and 
her  nerves  were  unstrung,  he  supposed. 

She  had  really  passed  through  a  very  violent 
emotion,  but  it  had  not  been  caused  by  her  surprise, 
but  by  her  momentary  fear  for  the  fugitive,  instantly 
allayed  by  Mr.  Juxon's  explanation.  She  felt  that  for 
to-day  at  least  Walter  was  safe,  and  by  to-morrow 


xv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         237 

he  would  be  safe  out  of  the  neighbourhood.  But  she 
reflected  that  it  was  necessary  to  say  something ;  that 
if  she  appeared  to  receive  the  news  too  indifferently 
the  squire's  suspicions  might  be  aroused  with  fatal 
results. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing,"  she  said  presently.  "  You 
see  I  am  not  at  all  myself." 

It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  act  a  part.  The  words 
were  commonplace. 

"  No/'  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "  I  see  you  are  not."  He  on 
his  part,  instead  of  looking  for  a  stronger  expression 
of  fear  or  astonishment,  was  now  only  too  glad  that 
she  should  be  so  calm. 

"  Would  you  advise  me  to  do  anything  ?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,"  he  answered  quickly, 
glad  of  a  chance  to  relieve  the  embarrassment  of  the 
situation.  "  Of  course  we  might  put  you  under  the 
protection  of  the  police  but — what  is  the  matter,  Mrs. 
Goddard  ? "  She  had  started  as  though  in  pain. 

"  Only  this  dreadful  headache,"  she  said.  "  Go  on 
please." 

"  Well,  we  might  set  Gall  the  policeman  to  watch 
your  house ;  but  that  would  be  very  unpleasant  for  you. 
It  would  be  like  telling  him  and  all  the  village  people 
of  your  situation " 

"  Oh  don't !     Please  don't ! " 

"  No,  certainly  not.  I  think  it  very  unwise.  Be 
sides — "  he  stopped  short.  He  was  about  to  say 
that  he  felt  much  better  able  to  watch  over  Mrs. 
Goddard  himself  than  Gall  the  constable  could  pos 
sibly  be ;  but  he  checked  himself  in  time. 

"Besides — what?"  she  asked. 

"  Nothing — Gall  is  not  much  of  a  policeman,  that  is 


238  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

all.  I  do  not  believe  you  would  be  any  the  safer  for 
his  protection.  But  you  must  promise  me,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Goddard,  that  if  anything  occurs  you  will  let  me 
know.  I  may  be  of  some  assistance." 

"  Thank  you,  so  much,"  said  she.  "  You  are  always 
so  kind ! " 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  very  glad  if  you  think  I  was 
right  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"  Oh,  quite  right,"  she  answered.  "  And  now,  Mr. 
Juxon,  I  am  really  not  at  all  well.  All  this  has  quite 
unnerved  me " 

"  You  want  me  to  go  ? "  said  the  squire  smiling  kindly 
as  he  rose.  "  Yes,  I  understand.  Well,  good-bye,  my 
dear  friend — I  hope  everything  will  clear  up." 

"  Good-bye.  Thank  you  again.  You  always  do 
understand  me,"  she  answered  giving  him  her  small 
cold  hand.  "  Don't  think  me  ungrateful,"  she  added, 
looking  up  into  his  eyes. 

"No  indeed — not  that  there  is  anything  to  be 
grateful  for." 

In  a  moment  more  he  was  gone,  feeling  that  he  had 
done  his  duty  like  a  man,  and  that  it  had  not  been 
so  hard  after  all.  He  was  glad  it  was  done,  however, 
and  he  felt  that  he  could  face  the  vicar  with  a  bold  front 
at  their  next  meeting.  He  went  quickly  down  the  path 
and  crossed  the  road  to  his  own  gate  with  a  light  step. 
As  he  entered  the  park  he  was  not  aware  of  a  wretched- 
looking  tramp  who  slouched  along  the  quickset  hedge 
and  watched  his  retreating  figure  far  up  the  avenue, 
till  he  was  out  of  sight  among  the  leafless  trees.  If 
Stamboul  had  been  with  the  squire  the  tramp  would 
certainly  not  have  passed  unnoticed;  but  for  some 
days  the  roads  had  been  so  muddy  that  Stamboul 
had  been  left  behind  when  Mr.  Juxon  made  his  visits 


xv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         239 

to  the  cottage,  lest  the  great  hound  should  track  the  mud 
into  the  spotless  precincts  of  the  passage.  The  tramp 
stood  still  and  looked  after  the  squire  so  long  as  he  could 
see  him,  and  then  slunk  off  across  the  wet  meadows, 
where  the  standing  water  was  now  skimmed  with  ice. 
Walter  Goddard  had  spent  the  day  in  watching  for 
the  squire  and  he  had  seen  him  at  last.  He  had  seen 
him  go  down  the  road  with  the  vicar  till  they  were 
both  out  of  sight,  and  he  had  seen  him  come  back  and 
enter  the  cottage.  This  proceeding",  he  argued,  betrayed 
that  the  squire  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  going  into 
Mary's  house  by  the  vicar.  The  tortuous  intelligences 
of  bad  men  easily  impute  to  others  courses  which  they 
themselves  would  naturally  pursue.  Three  words  on 
the  previous  evening  had  sufficed  to  rouse  the  convict's 
jealousy.  What  he  saw  to-day  confirmed  his  sus 
picions.  The  gentleman  in  knickerbockers  could  be 
no  other  than  the  squire  himself,  of  course.  He  was 
evidently  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Mary  Goddard  and 
he  did  not  wish  his  visits  to  be  observed  by  the  clergy 
man,  who  was  of  course  the  vicar  or  rector  of  the 
parish.  That  proved  conclusively  in  the  fugitive's 
mind  that  there  was  something  wrong.  He  ground 
his  teeth  together  and  said  to  himself  that  it  would  be 
worth  while  to  run  some  risk  in  order  to  stop  that 
little  game,  as  he  expressed  it.  He  had,  as  he  himself 
had  confessed  to  his  wife,  murdered  one  man  in  escap 
ing  ;  a  man,  he  reflected,  could  only  hang  once,  and  if 
he  had  not  been  taken  in  the  streets  of  London  he  was 
not  likely  to  be  caught  in  the  high  street  of  Billingsfield, 
Essex.  It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  knock  the 
squire  on  the  head  before  he  went  any  farther.  More 
over  he  had  found  a  wonderfully  safe  retreat  in  the  dis 
used  vault  at  the  back  of  the  church.  He  discovered 


240  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

loose  stones  inside  the  place  which  he  could  pile 
up  against  the  low  hole  which  served  for  an  entrance. 
Probably  no  one  knew  that  there  was  any  entrance  at 
all — the  very  existence  of  the  vault  was  most  likely 
forgotten.  It  was  not  a  cheerful  place,  but  Goddard's 
nerves  were  excited  to  a  pitch  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
supernatural  fears.  Whatever  he  might  be  condemned 
to  feel  in  the  future,  his  conscience  troubled  him  very 
little  in  the  present.  The  vault  was  comparatively  dry 
and  was  in  every  way  preferable,  as  a  resting-place  for 
one  night,  to  the  interior  of  a  mouldy  haystack  in  the 
open  fields.  He  did  not  dare  show  himself  again  at 
the  "Feathers"  inn,  lest  he  should  be  held  to  do 
the  day's  work  he  had  promised  in  payment  for  his 
night  in  the  barn.  All  that  morning  and  afternoon 
he  had  lain  hidden  in  the  quickset  hedge  near  the  park 
gate,  within  sight  of  the  cottage,  and  he  had  been  re 
warded.  The  food  he  had  taken  with  him  the  night 
before  had  sufficed  him  and  he  had  quenched  his 
thirst  with  rain-water  from  the  ditch.  Having  seen 
that  the  squire  went  back  towards  the  Hall,  Goddard 
slunk  away  to  his  hiding-place  to  wait  for  the  night. 
He  lay  down  as  best  he  might,  and  listened  for  the 
hours  and  half-hours  as  the  church  clock  tolled  them 
out  from  the  lofty  tower  above. 

Mary  Goddard  had  told  him  to  come  later  than 
before,  and  it  was  after  half-past  ten  when  he  tapped 
upon  the  shutter  of  the  little  drawing-room.  All  was 
dark  within,  and  he  held  his  breath  as  he  stood  among 
the  wet  creepers,  listening  intently  for  the  sound  of 
his  wife's  coming.  Presently  the  glass  window  inside 
was  opened. 

"  Is  that  you  ? "  asked  Mary's  voice  in  a  tremulous 
whisper. 


xv.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         241 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Let  me  in."  Then  the 
shutter  was  cautiously  unfastened  and  opened  a  little 
and  in  the  dim  starlight  Goddard  recognised  his  wife's 
pale  face.  Her  hand  went  out  to  him,  with  something 
in  it. 

"  There  is  the  money,"  she  whispered.  "  Go  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  They  are  looking  for  you — there 
are  orders  out  to  arrest  you." 

Goddard  seized  her  fingers  and  took  the  money. 
She  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand  but  he  held  it 
firmly. 

"  Who  told  you  that  they  were  after  me  ? "  he  asked 
in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"  Mr.  Juxon — let  me  go." 

"  Mr.  Juxon  ! "  The  convict  uttered  a  rough  oath. 
"  Your  friend  Mr.  Juxon,  eh  ?  He  is  after  me,  is  he  ? 
Tell  him " 

"  Hush,  hush  ! "  she  whispered.  "  He  has  no  idea 
you  are  here " 

"  I  should  think  not,"  muttered  Walter.  "  He  would 
not  be  sneaking  in  here  on  the  sly  to  see  you  if  he 
knew  I  were  about ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Mary.  "  Oh,  Walter, 
let  me  go — you  hurt  me  so  ! "  He  held  her  fingers  as 
in  a  vice. 

"  Hurt  you  !  I  wish  I  could  strangle  you  and  him 
too !  Ha,  you  thought  I  was  not  looking  this  after 
noon  when  he  came !  He  went  to  the  corner  of  the 
road  with  the  parson,  and  when  the  parson  was  out  of 
sight  he  came  back  !  I  saw  you  ! " 

"  You  saw  nothing  ! "  answered  his  wife  desperately. 
"  How  can  you  say  so !  If  you  knew  how  kind  he 
has  been,  what  a  loyal  gentleman  he  is,  you  would 
not  dare  to  say  such  things." 

R 


242         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         CHAP. 

"  You  used  to  say  I  was  a  loyal  gentleman,  Mary," 
retorted  the  convict.  "I  daresay  he  is  of  the  same 
stamp  as  I.  Look  here,  Mary,  if  I  catch  this  loyal 
gentleman  coming  here  any  more  I  will  cut  his  throat 
— so  look  out ! " 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  remain 
here  any  longer,  in  danger  of  your  life  ? "  said  Mary 
in  great  alarm. 

"  Well — a  man  can  only  hang  once.  Give  me 
some  more  of  that  bread  and  cheese,  Mary.  It  was 
exceedingly  good." 

"Then  let  me  go,"  said  his  wife,  trembling  with 
horror  at  the  threat  she  had  just  heard. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  will  let  you  go.  But  I  will  just  hold 
the  window  open  in  case  you  don't  come  back  soon 
enough.  Look  sharp  ! " 

There  was  no  need  to  hurry  the  unfortunate  woman. 
In  less  than  three  minutes  she  returned,  bringing  a 
"  quartern "  loaf  and  a  large  piece  of  cheese.  She 
thrust  them  out  upon  the  window-sill  and  withdrew 
her  hand  before  he  could  catch  it.  But  he  held  the 
window  open. 

"  Now  go  ! "  she  said.  "  I  cannot  do  more  for  you — 
for  God's  sake  go  ! " 

"  You  seem  very  anxious  to  see  the  last  of  me,"  he 
whispered.  "  I  daresay  if  I  am  hanged  you  will  get 
a  ticket  to  see  me  turned  off.  Yes — we  mention  those 
things  rather  freely  up  in  town.  Don't  be  alarmed. 
I  will  come  back  to-morrow  night — you  had  better 
listen.  If  you  had  shown  a  little  more  heart,  I  would 
have  been  satisfied,  but  you  are  so  stony  that  I  think 
I  would  like  another  fifty  pounds  to-morrow  night. 
Those  notes  are  so  deliciously  crisp " 

"  Listen,  Walter  ! "  said  Mary.     "  Unless  you  pro- 


XV.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.          243 

mise  to  go  I  will  raise  an  alarm  at  once.  I  can  face 
shame  again  well  enough.  I  will  have  you — hush ! 
For  God's  sake — hush  !  There  is  somebody  coming  ! " 

The  convict's  quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound. 
Instantly  he  knelt  and  then  lay  down  at  full  length 
upon  the  ground  below  the  window.  It  was  a  fine 
night  and  the  conscientious  Mr.  Gall  was  walking  his 
beat.  The  steady  tramp  of  his  heavy  shoes  had  some 
thing  ominous  in  it  which  struck  terror  into  the  heart 
of  the  wretched  fugitive.  With  measured  tread  he 
came  from  the  direction  of  the  village.  Eeaching  the 
cottage  he  paused  and  dimly  in  the  starlight  Mrs. 
Goddard  could  distinguish  his  glazed  hat — the  pro 
vincial  constabulary  still  wore  hats  in  those  days. 
Mr.  Gall  stood  not  fifteen  yards  from  the  cottage, 
failed  to  observe  that  a  window  was  open  on  the 
lower  floor,  nodded  to  himself  as  though  satisfied  with 
his  inspection  and  walked  on.  Little  by  little  the 
sound  of  his  steps  grew  fainter  in  the  distance. 
Walter  slowly  raised  himself  again  from  the  ground, 
and  put  his  head  in  at  the  window. 

"  You  see  it  would  not  be  hard  to  have  you  caught," 
whispered  his  wife,  still  breathless  with  the  passing 
excitement  "That  was  the  policeman.  If  I  had 
called  him,  it  would  have  been  all  over  with  you.  I 
tell  you  if  you  try  to  come  again  I  will  give  you  up." 

"  Oh,  that's  the  way  you  treat  me  is  it  ? "  said  the 
convict  with  another  oath.  "  Then  you  had  better 
look  out  for  your  dear  Mr.  Juxon,  that's  all." 

Without  another  word,  Goddard  glided  away  from 
the  window,  let  himself  out  by  the  wicket  gate  and 
disappeared  across  the  road. 

Mary  Goddard  was  in  that  moment  less  horrified 
by  her  husband's  threat  than  by  his  base  ingratitude 


244  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

to  herself  and  by  the  accusation  he  seemed  to  make 
against  her.  Worn  out  with  the  emotions  of  fear  and 
anxiety,  she  had  barely  the  strength  to  close  and  fasten 
the  window.  Then  she  sank  into  the  first  chair  she 
could  find  in  the  dark  and  stared  into  the  blackness 
around  her.  It  seemed  indeed  more  than  she  could 
bear.  She  was  placed  in  the  terrible  position  of  being 
obliged  to  betray  her  fugitive  husband,  or  of  living  in 
constant  fear  lest  he  should  murder  the  best  friend 
she  had  in  the  world. 


XVI.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  245 


CHAPTEE   XVI. 

ON  the  morning  after  the  events  last  described  Mr. 
Ambrose  sat  at  breakfast  opposite  his  wife.  The  early 
post  had  just  arrived,  bringing  the  usual  newspaper 
and  two  letters. 

"  Any  news,  my  dear  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Ambrose  with 
great  suavity,  as  she  rinsed  her  teacup  in  the  bowl 
preparatory  to  repeating  the  dose.  "Is  not  it  time 
that  we  should  hear  from  John  ?" 

"  There  is  a  letter  from  him,  strange  to  say.  Wait 
a  minute — my  dear,  the  Tripos  is  over  and  he  wants 
to  know  if  he  may  stop  here " 

"  The  Tripos  over  already !  How  has  he  done  ? 
Do  tell  me,  Augustin  !" 

"  He  does  not  know,"  returned  the  vicar,  quickly 
looking  over  the  contents  of  the  letter.  "  The  lists  are 
not  out — he  thinks  he  has  done  very  well — he  has 
had  a  hint  that  he  is  high  up — wants  to  know  whether 
he  may  stop  on  his  way  to  London — he  is  going  to  see 
his  father " 

"  Of  course  he  shall  come,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose  with 
enthusiasm.  "He  must  stop  here  till  the  lists  are 
published  and  then  we  shall  know — anything  else  ? " 

"  The  other  is  a  note  from  the  tutor  of  his  side — 
my  old  friend  Brown — he  is  very  enthusiastic;  says 
it  is  an  open  secret  than  John  will  be  at  the  head  of 


246  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

the  list — begins  to  congratulate.  Well,  my  dear,  this 
is  very  satisfactory,  very  nattering." 

"  One  might  say  very  delightful,  Augustin." 

"  Delightful,  yes  quite  delightful,"  replied  the  vicar, 
burying  his  long  nose  in  his  teacup. 

"  I  only  hope  it  may  be  true.  I  was  afraid  that 
perhaps  John  had  done  himself  harm  by  coming  here 
at  Christmas.  Young  men  are  so  very  light-headed, 
are  they  not,  Augustin  ? "  added  Mrs.  Ambrose  with  a 
prim  smile.  On  rare  occasions  she  had  alluded  to 
John's  unfortunate  passion  for  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  when 
she  spoke  of  the  subject  she  had  a  tendency  to  assume 
something  of  the  stiffness  she  affected  towards  strangers. 
As  has  been  seen  she  had  ceased  to  blame  Mrs.  God 
dard.  Generally  speaking  the  absent  are  in  the  wrong 
in  such  matters;  she  could  not  refer  to  John's  con 
duct  without  a  touch  of  severity.  But  the  Eeverend 
Augustin  bent  his  shaggy  brows ;  John  was  now  suc 
cessful,  probably  senior  classic — it  was  evidently  no 
time  to  censure  his  behaviour. 

"  You  must  be  charitable,  my  dear,"  he  said,  looking 
sharply  at  his  wife.  "  We  have  all  been  young  once 
you  know." 

"Augustin,  I  am  surprised  at  you!"  said  Mrs.  Am 
brose  sternly. 

"  For  saying  that  I  once  was  young  ? "  inquired  her 
husband.  "  Strange  and  paradoxical  as  such  a  state 
ment  must  appear,  I  was  once  a  baby." 

"  I  think  your  merriment  very  unseemly,"  objected 
Mrs.  Ambrose  in  a  tone  of  censure.  "Because  you 
were  once  a  baby  it  does  not  follow  that  you  ever  acted 
in  such  a  very  foolish  way  about  a " 

"My  dear,"  interrupted  the  vicar,  handing  his  cup 
across  the  table,  "I  wish  you  would  leave  John  alone, 


xvi.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         247 

and  give  me  another  cup  of  tea.  John  will  be  here 
to-morrow.  Let  us  receive  him  as  we  should.  He 
has  done  us  credit." 

"  He  will  never  be  received  otherwise  in  this  house, 
Augustin,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "  whether  you  allow 
me  to  speak  my  mind  or  not.  I  am  aware  that  Short 
has  done  us  credit,  as  you  express  it.  I  only  hope  he 
always  may  do  us  credit  in  the  future.  I  am  sure,  I 
was  like  a  mother  to  him.  He  ought  never  to  forget 
it.  Why,  my  dear,  cannot  you  remember  how  I 
always  had  his  buttons  looked  to  and  gave  him 
globules  when  he  wanted  them?  I  think  he  might 
show  some  gratitude." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  has  failed  to  show  it,"  retorted 
the  vicar. 

"  Oh,  well,  Augustin,  if  you  are  going  to  talk  like 
that  it  is  not  possible  to  argue  with  you ;  but  he  shall 
be  welcome,  if  he  comes.  I  hope,  however,  that  he 
will  not  go  to  the  cottage " 

"  My  dear,  I  have  a  funeral  this  morning.  I  wish 
you  would  not  disturb  my  mind  with  these  trifles." 

"  Trifles  !     Who  is  dead  ?     You  did  not  teU  me." 

"  Poor  Judd's  baby,  of  course.  We  have  spoken  of 
it  often  enough,  I  am  sure." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course.  Poor  Tom  Judd  ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ambrose  with  genuine  sympathy.  "  It  seems  to 
me  you  are  always  burying  his  babies,  Augustin !  It 
is  very  sad." 

"  Not  always,  my  dear.  Frequently,"  said  the  vicar 
correcting  her.  "  It  is  very  sad,  as  you  say.  Very  sad. 
You  took  so  much  trouble  to  help  them  this  time,  too." 

"  Trouble  !  Mrs.  Ambrose  cast  up  her  eyes.  "  You 
don't  know  how  much  trouble.  But  I  am  quite  sure  it 
was  the  fault  of  that  brazen-faced  doctor.  I  cannot 


248  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

bear  the  sight  of  him  !  That  comes  of  answering  adver 
tisements  in  the  newspapers." 

The  present  doctor  had  bought  the  practice  aban 
doned  by  Mrs.  Ambrose's  son-in-law.  He  had  paid 
well  for  it,  but  his  religious  principles  had  not  formed 
a  part  of  the  bargain. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  cry  over  spilt  milk,  my  dear." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to.  No,  I  never  do.  But  it  is 
very  unpleasant  to  have  such  people  about.  I  really 
hope  Tom  Judd  will  not  lose  his  next  baby.  When 
is  John  coming  ?" 

"  To-morrow.  My  dear,  if  I  forget  it  this  morning, 
will  you  remember  to  speak  to  Eeynolds  about  the 
calf?" 

"  Certainly,  Augustin,"  said  his  wife.  Therewith 
the  good  vicar  left  her  and  went  to  bury  Tom  Judd's 
baby,  divided  in  his  mind  between  rejoicing  over  his 
favourite  pupil's  success  and  lamenting,  as  he  sincerely 
did,  the  misfortunes  which  befell  his  parishioners. 
When  he  left  the  churchyard  an  hour  later  he  was 
met  by  Martha,  who  came  from  the  cottage  with  a 
rnessage  begging  that  the  vicar  would  come  to  Mrs. 
Goddard  as  soon  as  possible.  Martha  believed  her 
mistress  was  ill,  she  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Ambrose  at 
once.  Without  returning  to  the  vicarage  he  turned  to 
the  left  towards  the  cottage. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  slept  that  night,  being  exhausted 
and  almost  broken  down  with  fatigue.  But  she  woke 
only  to  a  sense  of  the  utmost  pain  and  distress,  realis 
ing  that  to-day's  anxiety  was  harder  to  bear  than  yes 
terday's,  and  that  to-morrow  might  bring  forth  even 
worse  disasters  than  those  which  had  gone  before. 
Her  position  was  one  of  extreme  doubt  and  peril.  To 
tell  any  one  that  her  husband  was  in  the  neighbour- 


XVI.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  249 

hood  seemed  to  be  equivalent  to  rooting  out  the  very 
last  remnant  of  consideration  for  him  which  remained 
in  her  heart,  the  very  last  trace  of  what  had  once  been 
the  chief  joy  and  delight  of  her  life.  She  hesitated 
long.  There  is  perhaps  nothing  in  human  nature 
more  enduring  than  the  love  of  man  and  wife ;  or  per 
haps  one  should  rather  say  than  the  love  of  a  woman 
for  her  husband.  There  appear  to  be  some  men 
capable  of  being  so  completely  estranged  from  their 
wives  that  there  positively  does  not  remain  in  them 
even  the  faintest  recollection  of  what  they  have  once 
felt,  nor  the  possibility  of  feeling  the  least  pity  for 
what  the  women  they  once  loved  so  well  may  suffer. 
There  is  no  woman,  I  believe,  who  having  once  loved 
her  husband  truly,  could  see  him  in  pain  or  distress, 
or  in  danger  of  his  life,  without  earnestly  endeavouring 
to  help  him.  A  woman  may  cease  to  love  her  hus 
band  ;  in  some  cases  she  is  right  in  forgetting  her  love, 
but  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  case  where,  were  he 
the  worst  criminal  alive,  had  he  deceived  her  a 
thousand  times,  she  would  not  at  least  help  him  to 
escape  from  his  pursuers  or  give  him  a  crust  to  save 
him  from  starvation. 

Mary  Goddard  had  done  her  best  for  the  wretch 
who  had  claimed  her  assistance.  She  had  fed  him, 
provided  him  with  money,  refused  to  betray  him.  But 
if  it  were  to  be  a  question  of  giving  him  up  to  the 
law,  or  of  allowing  her  best  friend  to  be  murdered  by 
him,  or  even  seriously  injured,  she  felt  that  pity  must 
be  at  an  end.  It  would  be  doubtless  a  very  horrible 
thing  to  give  him  up,  and  she  had  gathered  from  what 
he  had  said  that  if  he  were  taken  he  would  pay  the  last 
penalty  of  the  law.  It  was  so  awful  a  thing  that  she 
groaned  when  she  thought  of  it.  But  she  remembered 


250  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

his  ghastly  face  in  the  starlight  and  the  threat  he  had 
hissed  out  against  the  squire ;  he  was  a  desperate  man, 
with  blood  already  on  his  hands.  It  was  more  than 
likely  that  he  would  do  the  deed  he  had  threatened  to 
do.  What  could  be  easier  than  to  watch  the  squire 
on  one  of  those  evenings  when  he  went  up  the  park 
alone,  to  fall  upon  him  and  take  his  life  ?  Of  late 
Mr.  Juxon  did  not  even  take  his  dog  with  him.  The 
savage  bloodhound  would  be  a  good  protector ;  but 
even  when  he  took  Stamboul  with  him  by  day,  he 
never  brought  him  at  night.  It  was  too  long  for  the 
beast  to  wait,  he  used  to  say,  from  six  to  nine  or  half 
past ;  he  was  so  savage  that  he  did  not  care  to  leave 
him  out  of  his  sight ;  he  brought  mud  into  the  cottage, 
or  into  the  vicarage  as  the  case  might  be — if  Stamboul 
had  been  an  ordinary  dog  it  would  have  been  different. 
Those  Eussian  bloodhounds  were  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
But  the  squire  must  be  warned  of  his  danger  before 
another  night  came  on. 

It  was  a  difficult  question.  Mrs.  Goddard  at  first 
thought  of  telling  him  herself;  but  she  shrank  from 
the  thought  for  she  was  exhausted  and  overwrought. 
A  few  days  ago  she  would  have  been  brave  enough  to 
say  anything  if  necessary,  but  now  she  had  no  longer 
the  courage  nor  the  strength.  It  seemed  so  hard  to 
face  the  squire  with  such  a  warning ;  it  seemed  as 
though  she  were  doing  something  which  would  make 
her  seem  ungrateful  in  his  eyes,  though  she  hardly 
knew  why  it  seemed  so.  She  turned  more  naturally 
to  the  vicar,  to  whom  she  had  originally  come  in  her 
first  great  distress ;  she  had  only  once  consulted  him, 
but  that  one  occasion  seemed  to  establish  a  prece 
dent  in  her  mind,  the  prec  .dent  of  a  thing  familiar. 
It  would  certainly  be  easier.  After  much  thought 


XVI.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         251 

and  inward  debate,  she  determined  to  send  for  Mr. 
Ambrose. 

The  fatigue  and  anxiety  she  had  undergone  during 
the  last  two  days  had  wrought  great  changes  in  her 
face.  A  girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty  years  may  gain 
delicacy  and  even  beauty  from  the  physical  effects  of 
grief,  but  a  woman  over  thirty  years  old  gains  neither. 
Mrs.  Goddard's  complexion,  naturally  pale,  had  taken 
a  livid  hue ;  her  lips,  which  were  never  very  red,  were 
almost  white;  heavy  purple  shadows  darkened  her 
eyes ;  the  two  or  three  lines  that  were  hardly  notice 
able,  but  which  were  the  natural  result  of  a  sad  ex 
pression  in  her  face,  had  in  two  days  become  distinctly 
visible  and  had  almost  assumed  the  proportions  of 
veritable  wrinkles.  Her  features  were  drawn  and 
pinched — she  looked  ten  years  older  than  she  was. 
Nothing  remained  of  her  beauty  but  her  soft  waving 
brown  hair  and  her  deep,  pathetic,  violet  eyes.  Even 
her  small  hands  seemed  to  have  grown  thin  and  looked 
unnaturally  white  and  transparent. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  favourite  chair  by  the  fire, 
when  the  vicar  arrived.  She  had  not  been  willing  to 
seem  ill,  in  spite  of  what  Martha  had  said,  and  she 
had  refused  to  put  cushions  in  the  chair.  She  was 
making  an  effort,  and  even  a  little  sense  of  physical 
discomfort  helped  to  make  the  effort  seem  easier.  She 
was  so  much  exhausted  that  she  felt  she  must  not  for 
one  moment  relax  the  tension  she  imposed  upon  her 
self  lest  her  whole  remaining  strength  should  suddenly 
collapse  and  leave  her  at  the  mercy  of  events.  But 
Mr.  Ambrose  was  startled  when  he  saw  her  and  feared 
that  she  was  very  ill. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  Has  anything  happened  ? " 


252  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

As  he  spoke  he  changed  the  form  of  his  question, 
suddenly  recollecting  that  Mr.  Juxon  had  probably 
on  the  previous  afternoon  told  her  of  her  husband's 
escape,  as  he  had  meant  to  do.  This  might  be  the 
cause  of  her  indisposition. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  did  not  sound  like 
her  own,  "  I  have  asked  you  to  come  because  I  am  in 
great  trouble — in  desperate  trouble." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  vicar.     "  I  hope  not ! " 

"  Not  desperate  ?  Perhaps  not.  Dear  Mr.  Am 
brose,  you  have  always  been  so  kind  to  me — I  am 
sure  you  can  help  me  now."  Her  voice  trembled. 

"  Indeed  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  the  vicar  who 
judged  from  so  unusual  an  outburst  that  there  must 
be  really  something  wrong.  "  If  you  could  tell  me 
what  it  is — "  he  suggested. 

"  That  is  the  hardest  part  of  it,"  said  the  unhappy 
woman.  She  paused  a  moment  as  though  to  collect 
her  strength.  "  You  know,"  she  began  again,  "  that 
my  husband  has  escaped  ?  " 

"  A  terrible  business  ! "  exclaimed  the  good  man, 
nodding,  however,  in  affirmation  to  the  question  she 
asked. 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  said  Mary  Goddard  very  faintly, 
looking  down  at  her  thin  hands.  The  vicar  started  in 
astonishment. 

"  My  dear  friend — dear  me  !  Dear,  dear,  how  very 
painful ! " 

"  Indeed,  you  do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered. 
It  is  most  dreadful,  Mr.  Ambrose.  You  cannot  im 
agine  what  a  struggle  it  was.  I  am  quite  worn  out." 

She  spoke  with  such  evident  pain  that  the  vicar 
was  moved.  He  felt  .that  she  had  more  to  tell,  but  he 
had  hardly  recovered  from  his  surprise. 


xvi.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         253 

"But,  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  was  the  whole 
object  of  warning  you.  We  did  not  really  believe 
that  he  would  come  here.  We  were  so  much  afraid 
that  he  would  startle  you.  Of  course  Mr.  Juxon  told 
you  he  consulted  me " 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  It  was 
too  late.  I  had  seen  him  the  night  before." 

"  Why,  that  was  the  very  night  we  were  here ! " 
exclaimed  Mr.  Ambrose,  more  and  more  amazed.  Mrs. 
Goddard  nodded.  She  seemed  hardly  able  to  speak. 

"  He  came  and  knocked  at  that  window,"  she  said, 
very  faintly.  "  He  came  again  last  night." 

"  Dear  me — I  will  send  for  Gall  at  once ;  he  will 
have  no  difficulty  in  arresting  him " 

"  Oh  please  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Goddard  in  hysteri 
cal  tones.  "  Please,  please,  dear  Mr.  Ambrose,  don't ! " 

The  vicar  was  silent.  He  rose  unceremoniously 
from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the  window,  as  he  gener 
ally  did  when  in  any  great  doubt.  He  realised  at 
once  and  very  vividly  the  awful  position  in  which  the 
poor  lady  was  placed. 

"Pray  do  not  think  I  am  very  bad,"  said  she, 
almost  sobbing  with  fear  and  emotion.  "  Of  course  it 
must  seem  dreadful  to  you  that  I  should  wish  him  to 
escape  ! " 

The  vicar  came  slowly  back  and  stood  beside  her 
leaning  against  the  chimney-piece.  It  did  not  take 
him  long  to  make  up  his  mind.  Kind-hearted  people 
are  generally  impulsive. 

"I  do  not,  my  dear  lady.  I  assure  you  I  fully 
understand  your  position.  The  fact  is,  I  was  too  much 
surprised  and  I  am  too  anxious  for  your  safety  not  to 
think  immediately  of  securing  that — ahem — that  un 
fortunate  man." 


254  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  OHAP. 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  my  safety !  It  is  not  only  my 
safety " 

"I  understand — yes — of  course  you  are  anxious 
about  him.  But  it  is  doubtless  not  our  business  to 
aid  the  law  in  its  course,  provided  we  do  not  oppose  it." 

"  It  is  something  else,"  murmured  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  Oh !  how  shall  I  tell  you,"  she  moaned  turning  her 
pale  cheek  to  the  back  of  the  chair. 

The  vicar  looked  at  her  and  began  to  think  it  was 
perhaps  some  strange  case  of  conscience  with  which  he 
had  to  deal.  He  had  very  little  experience  of  such 
things  save  in  the  rude  form  they  take  among  the 
labouring  classes.  But  he  reflected  that  it  was  likely 
to  be  something  of  the  kind ;  in  such  a  case  Mrs. 
Goddard  would  naturally  enough  have  sent  for  him, 
more  as  her  clergyman  than  as  her  friend.  She  looked 
like  a  person  suffering  from  some  great  mental  strain. 
He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  passive  hand. 
He  was  moved,  and  felt  as  though  he  might  have  been 
her  father. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  kindly,  almost  as  though  he 
were  speaking  to  a  child,  "have  you  anything  upon 
your  mind,  anything  which  distresses  you  ?  Do  you 
wish  to  tell  me  ?  If  so  I  will  do  my  very  best  to  help 
you." 

Mrs.  Goddard's  fingers  pressed  his  hand  a  little, 
but  her  face  was  still  turned  away. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Juxon,"  she  almost  whispered.  If  she 
had  been  watching  the  vicar  she  would  have  noticed 
the  strange  air  of  perplexity  which  came  over  his  face 
when  he  heard  the  squire's  name. 

"  Yes — Mr.  Juxon,"  she  moaned.  Then  the  choked- 
down  horror  rose  in  her  throat.  "Walter  means  to 
murder  him ! "  she  almost  screamed.  "  Oh,  my  God, 


xvi.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         255 

my  God,  what  shall  I  do ! "  she  cried  aloud  clasping 
her  hands  suddenly  over  her  face  and  rocking  herself 
to  and  fro. 

The  vicar  was  horror-struck ;  he  could  hardly  be 
lieve  his  ears,  and  believing  them  his  senses  swam. 
In  his  wildest  dreams — and  the  good  man's  dreams 
were  rarely  wild — he  had  never  thought  that  such 
things  could  come  near  him.  Being  a  very  good  man 
and,  moreover,  a  wise  man  when  he  had  plenty  of  time 
for  reflection,  he  folded  his  hands  quietly  and  bent 
his  head,  praying  fervently  for  the  poor  tortured 
woman  who  moaned  and  tossed  herself  beside  him. 
It  was  a  terrible  moment.  Suddenly  she  controlled 
herself  and  grasping  one  of  the  arms  of  the  chair 
looked  round  at  her  silent  companion. 

"  You  must  save  him,"  she  said  in  agonised  tones, 
"  you  must  save  them  both !  Do  not  tell  me  you 
cannot — oh,  do  not  tell  me  that ! " 

It  was  a  passionate  and  heart-broken  appeal,  such 
a  one  as  few  men  would  or  could  resist,  coming  as  it 
did  from  a  helpless  and  miserably  unhappy  woman. 
Whether  the  vicar  was  wise  in  giving  the  answer  he 
did,  it  would  be  hard  to  say :  but  he  was  a  man  who 
honestly  tried  to  do  his  best. 

"  I  will  try,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  making  a  great 
resolution.  Mrs.  Goddard  took  his  hand  and  pressed 
it  in  both  of  hers,  and  the  long  restrained  tears  flowed 
fast  and  softly  over  her  worn  cheeks.  For  some 
moments  neither  spoke. 

"  If  you  cannot  save  both — you  must  save — Mr. 
Juxon,"  she  said  at  last,  breathing  the  words  rather 
than  speaking  them. 

The  vicar  knew  or  guessed  what  it  must  cost  her 
to  hint  that  her  husband  might  be  captured.  He 


256  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

recognised  that  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  con 
tribute  towards  the  escape  of  the  convict  was  by  not 
revealing  his  hiding-place,  and  he  accordingly  re 
frained  from  asking  where  he  was  concealed.  He 
shuddered  as  he  thought  that  Goddard  might  be  lying 
hidden  in  the  cottage  itself,  for  all  he  could  tell,  but 
he  was  quite  sure  that  he  ought  not  to  know  it.  So 
long  as  he  did  not  know  where  the  forger  was,  it  was 
easy  to  hold  his  peace ;  but  if  once  he  knew,  the  vicar 
was  not  capable  of  denying  the  knowledge.  He  had 
never  told  a  lie  in  his  life. 

"  I  will  try,"  he  repeated ;  and  growing  calmer,  he 
added,  "You  are  quite  sure  this  was  not  an  empty 
threat,  my  dear  friend  ?  Was  there  any  reason — a — 
I  mean  to  say,  had  this  unfortunate  man  ever  known 
Mr.  Juxon  ? " 

"  Oh  no  ! "  answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  sinking  back 
into  her  chair.  "He  never  knew  him."  Her  tears 
were  still  flowing  but  she  no  longer  sobbed  aloud ;  it 
had  been  a  relief  to  her  overwrought  and  sensitive 
temperament  to  give  way  to  the  fit  of  weeping.  She 
actually  felt  better,  though  ten  minutes  earlier  she 
would  not  have  believed  it  possible. 

"  Then — why  ? "  asked  Mr.  Ambrose,  hesitating. 

"  My  poor  husband  was  a  very  jealous  man,"  she 
answered.  "  I  accidentally  told  him  that  the  cottage 
belonged  to  Mr.  Juxon  and  yesterday — do  you  re 
member?  You  walked  on  with  Mr.  Juxon  beyond 
the  turning,  and  then  he  came  back  to  see  me — to  tell 
me  of  my  husband's  escape.  Walter  saw  that  and — 
and  he  thought,  I  suppose — that  Mr.  Juxon  did  not 
want  you  to  see  him  coming  here." 

"  But  Mr.  Juxon  had  just  promised  me  to  go  and 
see  you,"  said  the  honest  vicar. 


XVL         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         257 

"Yes,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Goddard,  beginning  to  sob 
again,  "  but  Walter — my  husband — thinks  that  I — I 
care  for  Mr.  Juxon — he  is  so  jealous,"  cried  she,  again 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  The  starting  tears 
trickled  through  her  fingers  and  fell  upon  her  black 
dress.  She  was  ashamed,  this  time,  for  she  hated  even 
to  speak  of  such  a  possibility. 

"  I  understand,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose  gravely.  It 
certainly  did  not  strike  him  that  it  might  be  true,  and 
his  knowledge  of  such  characters  as  Walter  Goddard 
was  got  chiefly  from  the  newspapers.  He  had  often 
noticed  in  reports  of  trials  and  detailed  descriptions 
of  crimes  that  criminals  seem  to  become  entirely 
irrational  after  a  certain  length  of  time,  and  it  was  one 
of  the  arguments  he  best  understood  for  demonstrating 
that  bad  men  either  are  originally,  or  ultimately  become 
mad.  To  men  like  the  vicar,  almost  the  only  possible 
theory  of  crime  is  the  theory  of  insanity.  It  is  posi 
tively  impossible  for  a  man  who  has  passed  thirty  or 
forty  years  in  a  quiet  country  parish  to  comprehend 
the  motives  or  the  actions  of  great  criminals.  He 
naturally  says  they  must  be  crazy  or  they  would  not 
do  such  things.  If  Goddard  were  crazy  enough  to 
commit  a  forgery,  he  was  crazy  enough  for  anything, 
even  to  the  extent  of  suspecting  that  his  wife  loved 
the  squire. 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  "that  if  you  agree 
with  me  it  will  be  best  to  warn  Mr.  Juxon  of  his 
danger." 

"  Of  course,"  murmured  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  You  must 
warn  him  at  once  ! " 

"  I  will  go  to  the  Hall  now,"  said  the  vicar  bravely. 
"  But — I  am  very  sorrow  to  have  to  dwell  on  the  sub 
ject,  my  dear  lady,  but,  without  wishing  in  the  least 

s 


258  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

to  know  where  the — your  husband  is,  could  you  tell 
me  anything  about  his  appearance  ?  For  instance,  if 
you  understand  what  I  mean,  supposing  that  Mr. 
Juxon  knew  how  he  looked  and  should  happen  to 
meet  him,  knowing  that  he  wished  to  kill  him — he 
might  perhaps  avoid  him,  if  you  understand  me  ? " 

The  vicar's  English  was  a  little  disturbed  by  his 
extreme  desire  not  to  hurt  Mrs.  Goddard's  feelings. 
If  the  squire  and  his  dog  chanced  to  meet  Walter 
Goddard  they  would  probably  not  avoid  him  as  the 
vicar  expressed  it ;  that  was  a  point  Mr.  Ambrose  was 
willing  to  leave  to  Mrs.  Goddard's  imagination. 

"  Yes — must  you  know  ? "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  We  must  know  that,"  returned  the  vicar. 

"  He  is  disguised  as  a  poor  tramp,"  she  said  sorrow 
fully.  "  He  wears  a  smock-frock  and  an  old  hat  I 
think.  He  is  pale — oh,  poor,  poor  Walter ! "  she 
cried  again  bursting  into  tears. 

Mr.  Ambrose  could  say  nothing.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  said.  He  rose  and  took  his  hat — the  old  tall 
hat  he  wore  to  his  parishioners'  funerals.  They  were 
very  primitive  people  in  Billingsfield. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  said.  "  Believe  me,  you 
have  all  my  sympathy — I  will  do  all  I  can." 

Mary  Goddard  thanked  him  more  by  her  looks 
than  with  any  words  she  was  able  to  speak.  But  she 
was  none  the  less  truly  grateful  for  his  sympathy  and 
aid.  She  had  a  kind  of  blind  reliance  on  him  which 
made  her  feel  that  since  she  had  once  confided  her 
trouble  and  danger  nothing  more  could  possibly  be 
done.  When  he  was  gone,  she  sobbed  with  relief,  as 
before  she  had  wept  for  fear  ;  she  was  hysterical,  un 
strung,  utterly  unlike  herself. 

But  as  the  vicar  went  up  towards  the  Hall  he  felt 


XVI.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         259 

that  he  had  his  hands  full,  and  he  felt  moreover  an 
uneasy  sensation  which  he  could  not  have  explained. 
He  was  certainly  no  coward,  but  he  had  never  been 
in  such  a  position  before  and  he  did  not  like  it ;  there 
was  an  air  of  danger  about,  an  atmosphere  which  gave 
him  a  peculiarly  unpleasant  thrill  from  time  to  time. 
He  was  not  engaged  upon  an  agreeable  errand,  and  he 
had  a  vague  feeling,  due,  the  scientists  would  have 
told  him,  to  unconscious  ratiocination,  which  seemed 
to  tell  him  that  something  was  going  to  happen. 
People  who  are  very  often  in  danger  know  that  singular 
uneasiness  which  warns  them  that  all  is  not  well ;  it  is 
not  like  anything  else  that  can  be  felt.  No  one  really 
knows  its  cause,  unless  it  be  true  that  the  mind  some 
times  reasons  for  itself  without  the  consciousness  of 
the  body,  and  communicates  to  the  latter  a  spasmodic 
warning,  the  result  of  its  cogitations. 

To  say  to  the  sturdy  squire,  "  Beware  of  a  man  in 
a  smock-frock,  one  Goddard  the  forger,  who  means  to 
murder  you,"  seemed  of  itself  simple  enough.  But 
for  the  squire  to  distinguish  this  same  Goddard  from 
all  other  men  in  smock-frocks  was  a  less  easy  matter. 
The  vicar,  indeed,  could  tell  a  strange  face  at  a 
hundred  yards,  for  he  knew  every  man,  woman  and 
child  in  his  parish ;  but  the  squire's  acquaintance  was 
more  limited.  Obviously,  said  Mr.  Ambrose  to  him 
self,  the  squire's  best  course  would  be  to  stay  quietly  at 
home  until  the  danger  was  passed,  and  to  pass  word 
to  Policeman  Gall  to  lay  hands  on  any  particularly 
seedy-looking  tramps  he  happened  to  see  in  the  village. 
It  was  Gall's  duty  to  do  so  in  any  case,  as  he  had  been 
warned  to  be  on  the  look-out.  Mr.  Ambrose  inwardly 
wondered  where  the  man  could  be  hiding.  Billings- 
field  was  not,  he  believed,  an  easy  place  to  hide  in, 


260  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

for  every  ploughman  knew  his  fellow,  and  a  new  face 
was  always  an  object  of  suspicion.  Not  a  gipsy  tinker 
entered  the  village  but  what  every  one  heard  of  it,  and 
though  tramps  came  through  from  time  to  time,  it 
would  be  a  difficult  matter  for  one  of  them  to  remain 
two  days  in  the  place  without  attracting  a  great  deal 
of  attention.  It  was  possible  that  Walter  Goddard 
might  have  been  concealed  for  one  night  in  his  wife's 
house,  but  even  there  he  could  not  have  remained 
hidden  for  two  days  without  being  seen  by  Mrs. 
Goddard's  two  women  servants.  The  vicar  walked 
rapidly  through  the  park,  looking  about  him  sus 
piciously  as  he  went.  Goddard  might  at  that  very 
moment  be  lurking  behind  any  one  of  those  oaks ;  it 
would  be  most  unpleasant  if  he  mistook  the  vicar  for 
the  squire.  But  that,  the  vicar  reflected,  was  im 
possible  on  account  of  his  clerical  dress.  He  reached 
the  Hall  in  safety  and  stood  looking  down  among  the 
leafless  trees,  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened. 


XVH.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  261 


CHAPTEE   XVIL 

MR.  JUXON  received  the  vicar  in  the  library  as  he  had 
received  him  on  the  previous  day ;  but  on  the  present 
occasion  Mr.  Ambrose  had  not  been  sent  for  and  the 
squire's  face  wore  an  expression  of  inquiry.  He  sup 
posed  his  friend  had  come  to  ask  him  the  result  of  the 
interview  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  as  he  himself  was 
on  the  point  of  going  towards  the  cottage  he  wished 
the  vicar  had  come  at  a  later  or  an  earlier  hour. 

"  I  have  a  message  to  give  you,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose, 
"a  very  important  message." 

"  Indeed?"  answered  the  squire,  observing  his  serious 
face. 

"Yes.  I  had  better  tell  you  at  once.  Mrs. 
Goddard  sent  for  me  this  morning.  She  has  actually 
seen  her  husband,  who  must  be  hiding  in  the  neigh 
bourhood.  He  came  to  her  drawing-room  window  last 
night  and  the  night  before." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Juxon.  "  You  don't 
tell  me  so  ! " 

"  That  is  not  the  worst  of  the  matter,"  continued  the 
vicar,  looking  very  grave  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
squire's  face.  "This  villainous  fellow  has  been 
threatening  to  take  your  life,  Mr.  Juxon." 

Mr.  Juxon  stared  at  the  vicar  for  a  moment  in  sur 
prise,  and  then  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 


262  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  My  life  ! "  he  cried.  "  Upon  my  word,  the  fellow 
does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about !  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  this  escaped  convict,  who  can  be 
arrested  at  sight  wherever  he  is  found,  imagines  that 
he  could  attack  me  in  broad  daylight  without  being 
caught  ? " 

"  Well,  no,  I  suppose  not — but  you  often  walk 
home  at  night,  Mr.  Juxon — alone  through  the  park." 

"  I  think  that  dog  of  mine  could  manage  Mr. 
Goddard,"  remarked  the  squire  calmly.  "And  pray, 
Mr.  Ambrose;  now  that  we  know  that  the  man  is  in 
the  neighbourhood,  what  is  to  prevent  us  from  finding 
him  ? " 

"  We  do  not  know  where  he  is,"  replied  the  vicar, 
thanking  the  inspiration  which  had  prevented  him 
from  asking  Mrs.  Goddard  more  questions.  He  had 
promised  to  save  Goddard,  too,  or  at  least  not  to 
facilitate  his  capture.  But  though  he  was  glad  to  be 
able  to  say  honestly  that  he  did  not  know  where  he 
was,  he  began  to  doubt  whether  in  the  eyes  of  the  law 
he  was  acting  rightly. 

"  You  do  not  know  ? "  asked  the  squire. 

"  No  ;  and  besides  I  think — perhaps — we  ought  to 
consider  poor  Mrs.  Goddard's  position." 

"  Mrs.  Goddard's  position ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Juxon 
almost  angrily.  "  And  who  should  consider  her 
position  more  than  I,  Mr.  Ambrose.  My  dear  sir,  I 
consider  her  position  before  all  things — of  course  I  do. 
But  nothing  could  be  of  greater  advantage  to  her 
position  than  the  certainty  that  her  husband  is  safely 
lodged  in  prison.  I  cannot  imagine  how  he  contrived 
to  escape — can  you  ? " 

"No,  I  cannot,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  biting  his  long  upper  lip. 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  263 

"  By  the  bye,  did  the  fellow  happen  to  say  why  he 
meant  to  lay  violent  hands  on  me  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Juxon. 

"  Since  you  ask — he  did.  It  appears  that  he  saw 
you  going  into  the  cottage,  and  immediately  became 
jealous " 

"  Of  me  ? "  Mr.  Juxon  coloured  a  little  beneath 
his  bronzed  complexion,  and  grew  more  angry.  "  Well, 
upon  my  word !  But  if  that  is  true  I  am  much 
obliged  for  your  warning.  Fellows  of  that  sort  never 
reason — he  will  very  likely  attack  me  as  you  say.  It 
will  be  quite  the  last  time  he  attacks  anybody — the 
devil  shall  have  his  own,  Mr.  Ambrose,  if  I  can  help 
him  to  it " 

"  Dear  me  !  Mr.  Juxon — you  surprise  me,"  said  the 
vicar,  who  had  never  heard  his  friend  use  such  strong 
language  before. 

"  It  is  enough  to  surprise  anybody,"  remarked  the 
squire.  "  I  trust  we  shall  surprise  Mr.  Goddard  before 
night  Excuse  me,  but  when  did  he  express  his 
amiable  intentions  towards  me  ? " 

"Last  night,  I  believe,"  replied  Mr.  Ambrose, 
reluctantly. 

"And  when  did  he  see  me  going  into  the  cottage?" 

"Yesterday  afternoon,  I  believe."  The  vicar  felt 
as  though  he  were  beginning  to  break  his  promise  of 
shielding  the  fugitive,  but  he  could  not  refuse  to 
answer  a  direct  question. 

"Then,  when  he  saw  me,  he  was  either  in  the 
cottage  or  in  the  park.  There  was  no  one  in  the  road, 
I  am  quite  sure." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  vicar,  delighted  at  being 
able  to  say  so.  He  was  such  a  simple  man  that  Mr. 
Juxon  noticed  the  tone  of  relief  in  which  he  denied 


264  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

any  knowledge  of  Goddard's  whereabouts  on  the 
previous  day  as  compared  with  his  reluctance  to 
answer  upon  those  points  of  which  he  was  certain. 

"You  are  not  anxious  that  Goddard  should  be 
caught,"  said  the  squire  rather  sharply. 

"  Frankly,"  returned  the  vicar,  "  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  instrumental  in  his  capture — not  that  I  am  likely 
to  be." 

"  That  is  none  of  my  business,  Mr.  Ambrose.  I  will 
try  and  catch  him  alone.  But  it  would  be  better  that 
he  should  be  taken  alive  and  quietly " 

"  Surely,"  cried  the  vicar  in  great  alarm,  "  you  would 
not  kill  him  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  certainly  not.  But  my  dog  might,  Mr. 
Ambrose.  They  are  ugly  dogs  when  they  are  angry, 
and  they  have  a  remarkable  faculty  for  finding  people 
who  are  lost.  They  used  to  use  them  in  Eussia  for 
tracking  fugitive  serfs  and  convicts  who  escaped  from 
Siberia." 

Mr.  Ambrose  shuddered.  The  honest  squire  seemed 
almost  as  bloodthirsty  in  his  eyes  as  the  convict 
Goddard.  He  felt  that  he  did  not  understand  Mr. 
Juxon.  The  idea  of  hunting  people  with  bloodhounds 
seemed  utterly  foreign  to  his  English  nature,  and  he 
could  not  understand  how  his  English  friend  could 
entertain  such  a  thought;  he  probably  forgot  that  a 
few  generations  earlier  the  hunting  of  all  kinds  of  men, 
papists,  dissenters,  covenanters  and  rebels,  with  dogs, 
had  been  a  favourite  English  sport. 

"Eeally,  Mr.  Juxon,"  he  said  in  an  agitated  tone, 
"  I  think  you  would  do  much  better  to  protect  yourself 
with  the  means  provided  by  the  law.  Considerations 
of  humanity " 

"  Considerations   of  humanity,   sir,  are  at  an  end 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  265 

when  one  man  threatens  the  life  of  another.  You 
admit  yourself  that  I  am  not  safe  unless  Goddard  is 
caught,  and  yet  you  object  to  my  method  of  catching 
him.  That  is  illogical." 

The  vicar  felt  that  this  was  to  some  extent  true ; 
but  he  was  not  willing  to  admit  it.  He  knew  also 
that  if  he  could  dissuade  the  squire  from  his  barbarous 
scheme,  Goddard  would  have  a  far  better  chance  of 
escape. 

"  I  think  that  with  the  assistance  of  Gall  and  a 
London  detective — "  he  began. 

"  Gall  is  an  old  woman,  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  it  will 
take  twenty-four  hours  to  get  a  detective  from  town. 
In  twenty-four  hours  this  man  may  have  attacked 
me." 

"  He  will  hardly  attempt  to  force  his  way  into  your 
house,  Mr.  Juxon." 

"  So  then,  I  am  to  stay  at  home  to  suit  his  con 
venience  ?  I  will  not  do  any  such  thing.  Besides, 
in  twenty-four  hours  Goddard  may  have  changed  his 
mind  and  may  have  taken  himself  off.  For  the  rest 
of  her  life  Mrs.  Goddard  will  then  be  exposed  to  the 
possibility  of  every  kind  of  annoyance." 

"  He  would  never  come  back,  I  am  sure,"  objected 
the  vicar. 

"  Why  not  ?  Every  time  he  comes  she  will  give 
him  money.  The  more  money  she  gives  him  the  more 
often  he  will  come,  unless  we  put  an  end  to  his  coming 
altogether." 

"  You  seem  to  forget,"  urged  Mr.  Ambrose,  "  that 
there  will  be  a  vigorous  search  made  for  him.  Why 
not  telegraph  to  the  governor  of  Portland  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  save  Mrs.  Goddard  from 
needless  scandal ;  did  you  not  ? "  returned  the  squire. 


266  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"The  governor  of  Portland  would  send  down  a  squad 
of  police  who  would  publish  the  whole  affair.  He 
would  have  done  so  as  soon  as  the  man  escaped  had 
he  known  that  Mrs.  Goddard  lived  here." 

"  I  wonder  how  Goddard  himself  knew  it,"  remarked 
Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she  told  him  she  was 
coming  here,  at  their  last  interview.  Or  perhaps 
she  wrote  to  him  in  prison  and  the  governor  over 
looked  the  letter.  Anything  like  that  would  account 
for  it." 

"  But  if  you  catch  him — alive,"  hesitated  the  vicar, 
"it  will  all  be  known  at  once.  I  do  not  see  how  you 
can  prevent  that." 

"  If  I  catch  him  alive,  I  will  take  him  out  of  Bil- 
lingsfield  without  any  one's  knowledge.  I  do  not  mean 
to  hurt  him.  I  only  want  to  get  him  back  to  prison. 
Believe  me,  I  am  much  more  anxious  than  you  can 
possibly  be  to  save  Mrs.  Goddard  from  harm." 

"Very  well.  I  have  done  my  errand,"  said  Mr. 
Ambrose,  with  a  sort  of  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  confess,  I 
am  in  great  anxiety  of  mind,  both  on  your  account  and 
on  hers.  I  never  dreamed  that  such  things  could 
happen  in  Billingsfield." 

"You  are  certainly  not  responsible  for  them," 
answered  Mr.  Juxon.  "  It  is  not  your  fault " 

"Not  altogether,  perhaps.  But  I  was  perhaps 
wrong  in  letting  her  come  here — no,  I  am  sure  I  was 
not,"  he  added  impulsively,  as  though  ashamed  of 
having  said  anything  so  unkind. 

"  Certainly  not.  You  were  quite  right,  Mr.  Am 
brose,  quite  right,  I  assure  you." 

"Well,  I  hope  all  may  yet  be  for  the  best,"  said 
the  vicar. 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  267 

"  Let  us  hope  so,"  replied  Mr.  Juxon  gravely.  "  By 
all  means,  let  us  hope  that  all  may  be  for  the 
best." 

Whether  the  squire  doubted  the  possibility  of  so 
happy  an  issue  to  events  or  not,  is  uncertain.  He  felt 
almost  more  sorry  for  the  vicar  than  for  himself; 
the  vicar  was  such  a  good  man,  so  unused  to  the 
violent  deeds  of  violent  people,  of  which  the  squire  in 
his  wanderings  had  seen  more  than  was  necessary  to 
convince  him  that  all  was  not  always  for  the  best  in 
this  best  of  all  possible  worlds. 

Mr.  Ambrose  left  his  friend  and  as  he  retraced  his 
steps  through  the  park  was  more  disturbed  than  ever. 
That  Goddard  should  contemplate  killing  the  squire 
was  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience,  but  that  the  squire 
should  deliberately  purpose  to  hunt  down  Goddard 
with  his  bloodhound  seemed  somehow  even  worse. 
The  vicar  had  indeed  promised  Mrs.  Goddard  that 
he  would  not  help  to  capture  her  husband,  but  he 
would  have  been  as  glad  as  any  one  to  hear  that  the 
convict  was  once  more  lodged  in  his  prison.  There 
lurked  in  his  mind,  nevertheless,  an  impression  that 
even  a  convict  should  have  a  fair  chance.  The  idea 
was  not  expressed,  but  existed  in  him.  Everybody,  he 
would  have  said,  ought  to  have  a  fair  chance,  and  as 
the  law  of  nations  forbids  the  use  of  explosive  bullets 
in  warfare,  the  laws  of  humanity  seemed  to  forbid  the 
use  of  bloodhounds  in  the  pursuit  of  criminals.  He  had 
a  very  great  respect  for  the  squire's  character  and 
principles,  but  the  cold-blooded  way  in  which  Mr. 
Juxon  had  spoken  of  catching  and  probably  killing 
Walter  Goddard,  had  shaken  the  good  vicar's  belief  in 
his  friend.  He  doubted  whether  he  were  not  now 
bound  to  return  to  Mrs.  Goddard  and  to  warn  her  in 


268  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

his  turn  of  her  husband's  danger,  whether  he  ought 
not  to  do  something  to  save  the  wretched  convict  from 
his  fate.  It  seemed  hideous  to  think  that  in  peaceful 
Billingsfield,  in  his  own  lonely  parish,  a  human  being 
should  be  exposed  to  such  peril.  But  at  this  point 
the  vicar's  continuity  forsook  him.  He  had  not  the 
heart  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  interview  with  Mr.  Juxon 
to  the  unhappy  lady  he  had  left  that  morning.  It 
was  extremely  improbable,  he  thought,  that  she  should 
be  able  to  communicate  with  her  husband  during  the 
day,  and  the  squire's  language  led  him  to  think  that 
the  day  would  not  pass  without  some  attempt  to  dis 
cover  Walter  Goddard's  hiding-place.  Besides,  the 
vicar's  mind  was  altogether  more  disturbed  than  it 
had  been  in  thirty  years,  and  he  was  no  longer  able 
to  account  to  himself  with  absolute  accuracy  for  what 
he  did.  At  all  events,  he  felt  that  it  was  better  not  to 
tell  Mrs.  Goddard  what  the  squire  had  said. 

When  he  was  gone,  Mr.  Juxon  paced  his  library 
alone  in  the  greatest  uncertainty.  He  had  told  the 
vicar  in  his  anger  that  he  would  find  Goddard  with 
the  help  of  Stamboul.  That  the  hound  was  able  to 
accomplish  the  feat  in  the  present  weather,  and  if 
Goddard  had  actually  stood  some  time  at  the  cottage 
window  on  the  previous  night,  he  did  not  doubt  for  a 
moment.  The  vicar  had  mentioned  the  window  to 
him  when  he  told  him  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  seen 
her  husband.  He  had  probably  been  at  the  window 
as  late  as  midnight,  and  the  scent,  renewed  by  his 
visit,  would  not  be  twelve  hours  old.  Stamboul 
could  find  the  man,  unless  he  had  got  into  a  cart, 
which  was  improbable.  But  a  new  and  startling  con 
sideration  presented  itself  to  the  squire's  mind  when 
the  vicar  was  gone  and  his  anger  had  subsided;  a 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  269 

consideration  which  made  him  hesitate  what  course 
to  pursue. 

That  he  would  be  justified  in  using  any  means  in 
his  power  to  catch  the  criminal  seemed  certain.  It 
would  be  for  the  public  good  that  he  should  be  de 
livered  up  to  justice  as  soon  as  possible.  So  long  as 
Goddard  was  at  large  the  squire's  own  life  was  not 
safe,  and  Mrs.  Goddard  was  liable  to  all  kinds  of 
annoyances  at  any  moment.  There  was  every  reason 
why  the  fellow  should  be  captured.  But  to  capture 
him,  safe  and  sound,  was  one  thing ;  to  expose  him  to 
the  jaws  of  Stamboul  was  quite  another.  Mr.  Juxon 
had  a  lively  recollection  of  the  day  in  the  Belgrade 
forest  when  the  great  hound  had  pulled  down  one  of 
his  assailants,  making  his  fangs  meet  through  flesh 
and  bone.  If  Stamboul  were  set  upon  Goddard's 
track,  the  convict  could  hardly  escape  with  his  life. 
In  the  first  flush  of  the  squire's  anger  this  seemed  of 
little  importance.  But  on  mature  reflection  the  thing 
appeared  in  a  different  light. 

He  loved  Mrs.  Goddard  in  his  own  way,  which  was 
a  very  honourable  way,  if  not  very  passionate.  He 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  had  expressed  a 
wish  that  she  were  a  widow,  implying  perhaps  that  if 
she  had  been  free  she  would  have  accepted  him.  If 
the  obstacle  of  her  living  husband  were  removed,  it 
was  not  improbable  that  she  would  look  favourably 
upon  the  squire's  suit ;  to  bring  Goddard  to  an  un 
timely  end  would  undoubtedly  be  to  clear  the  way  for 
the  squire.  It  was  not  then,  a  legitimate  desire  for 
justice  which  made  him  wish  to  catch  the  convict  and 
almost  to  wish  that  Stamboul  might  worry  him  to 
death ;  it  was  the  secret  hope  that  Goddard  might  be 
killed  and  that  he,  Charles  James  Juxon,  might  have 


270  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

the  chance  to  marry  his  widow.  "  In  other  words,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  I  really  want  to  murder  Goddard  and 
take  his  wife." 

It  was  not  easy  to  see  where  legitimate  severity 
ended  and  unlawful  and  murderous  selfishness  began. 
The  temptation  was  a  terrible  one.  The  very  uncer 
tainty  which  there  was,  tempted  the  squire  to  disregard 
the  possibility  of  Goddard's  death  as  compared  with 
the  importance  of  his  capture.  It  was  quite  likely,  he 
unconsciously  argued,  that  the  bloodhound  would  not 
kill  him  after  all;  it  was  even  possible  that  he  might 
not  find  him ;  but  it  would  be  worth  while  to  make 
the  attempt,  for  the  results  to  be  obtained  by  catching 
the  fugitive  were  very  great — Mrs.  Goddard's  peace 
was  to  be  considered  before  all  things.  But  still 
before  the  squire's  eyes  arose  the  picture  of  Stamboul 
tearing  the  throat  of  the  man  he  had  killed  in  the 
Belgrade  forest.  If  he  killed  the  felon,  Juxon  would 
know  that  to  all  intents  and  purposes  he  had  himself 
done  the  deed  in  order  to  marry  Mrs.  Goddard.  But 
still  the  thought  remained  with  him  and  would  not 
leave  him. 

The  fellow  had  threatened  his  own  life.  It  was  then 
a  fair  fight,  for  a  man  cannot  be  blamed  if  he  tries  to 
get  the  better  of  one  who  is  going  about  to  kill  him. 
On  one  of  his  many  voyages,  he  had  once  shot  a  man 
in  order  to  quell  a  mutiny ;  he  had  not  killed  him  it  is 
true,  but  he  had  disabled  him  for  the  time — he  had 
handled  many  a  rough  customer  in  his  day.  The  case, 
he  thought,  was  similar,  for  it  was  the  case  of  self- 
defence.  The  law,  even,  would  say  he  was  justified. 
But  to  slay  a  man  in  self-defence  and  then  to  marry 
his  widow,  though  justifiable  in  law,  is  a  very  delicate 
case  for  the  conscience ;  and  in  spite  of  the  wandering 


xvn.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  271 

life  he  had  led,  Mr.  Juxon's  conscience  was  sensitive. 
He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  gentleman,  he  had  tried 
all  his  life  to  do  right  as  he  saw  it,  and  did  not  mean 
to  turn  murderer  now,  no  matter  how  easy  it  would 
be  for  him  to  defend  his  action. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  decided  that  it  would 
be  murder,  and  no  less,  to  let  Stamboul  track  Goddard 
to  his  hiding-place.  The  hound  might  accompany 
him  in  his  walks,  and  if  anybody  attacked  him  it 
would  be  so  much  the  worse  for  his  assailant.  Murder 
or  no  murder,  he  was  entitled  to  take  any  precautions 
he  pleased  against  an  assault.  '  But  he  would  not 
willingly  put  the  bloodhound  on  the  scent,  and  he 
knew  well  enough  that  the  dog  would  not  run  upon  a 
strange  trail  unless  he  were  put  to  it.  The  squire 
went  to  his  lunch,  feeling  that  he  had  made  a  good 
resolution ;  but  he  ate  little  and  soon  afterwards  began 
to  feel  the  need  of  going  down  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard. 
No  day  was  complete  without  seeing  her,  and  consider 
ing  the  circumstances  which  had  occurred  on  the 
previous  afternoon,  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
call  to  inquire  after  her  state.  In  the  hall,  the  gigan 
tic  beast  which  had  played  such  an  important  part  in 
his  thoughts  during  the  morning,  came  solemnly  up 
to  him,  raising  his  great  red  eyes  as  though  asking 
whether  he  were  to  accompany  his  master.  The  squire 
stood  still  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 

"  Come  along,  Stamboul ! "  he  said  suddenly,  as  he 
put  on  his  hat.  The  hound  leaped  up  and  laid  his 
heavy  paws  on  the  squire's  shoulders,  trying  to  lick 
his  face  in  his  delight,  then,  almost  upsetting  the 
sturdy  man  he  sprang  back,  slipped  on  the  polished 
floor,  recovered  himself  and  with  an  enormous  stride 
bounded  past  Mr.  Juxon,  out  into  the  park.  But  Mr. 


272  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Juxon  quickly  called  him  back,  and  presently  he  was 
following  close  at  heel  in  his  own  stately  way,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  The  squire  felt 
nervous,  and  the  sensation  was  new  to  him.  He  did 
not  believe  that  Goddard  would  really  attack  him  at 
all,  certainly  not  that  he  would  dare  to  attack  him  in 
broad  daylight.  But  the  knowledge  of  the  threat  the 
fellow  had  uttered  made  him  watchful.  He  glanced 
to  the  right  and  left  as  he  walked  and  gripped  his 
heavy  blackthorn  stick  firmly  in  his  hand.  He  wished 
that  if  the  man  were  to  appear  he  would  come  quickly 
— it  might  be  hard  to  hold  Stamboul  back  if  he  were 
attacked  unawares. 

He  reached  the  gate,  crossed  the  road  and  rang  the 
bell  of  the  cottage.  As  he  stood  waiting,  Stamboul 
smelled  the  ground,  put  up  his  head,  smelled  it  again 
and  with  his  nose  down  trotted  slowly  to  the  window 
on  the  left  hand  of  the  door.  He  smelled  the  ground, 
the  wall  and  presently  put  both  his  fore  paws  upon 
the  outer  ledge  of  the  window.  Then  he  dropped 
again,  and  looked  at  his  master.  Martha  was  a  long 
time  in  coming  to  the  door. 

"  After  him,  Stamboul ! "  said  the  squire,  almost 
unconsciously.  The  dog  put  his  nose  down  and  began 
to  move  slowly  about.  At  that  moment  the  door 
opened. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Martha,  "  it's  you,  sir.  I  was  to  say, 
if  you  please,  that  if  you  called,  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
poorly  to-day,  sir." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "  I  hope  she  is  not  ill. 
Is  it  anything  serious,  Martha  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,  she's  been  down  this  mornin',  but  her 
head  ached  terrible  bad  and  she  went  back  to  her 
room — oh,  sir,  your  dog — he's  a  runnin'  home." 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAlilSH.  273 

As  she  spoke  a  sound  rang  in  the  air  that  made 
Martha  start  back.  It  was  a  deep,  resounding,  bell- 
like  note,  fierce  and  wild,  rising  and  falling,  low  but 
full,  with  a  horror  indescribable  in  its  echo — the  sound 
which  no  man  who  has  heard  it  ever  forgets — the 
baying  of  a  bloodhound  on  the  track  of  a  man. 

The  squire  turned  deadly  pale,  but  he  shouted  with 
all  his  might,  as  he  would  have  shouted  to  a  man  on 
the  topsail  yard  in  a  gale  at  sea. 

"  Stamboul !  Stamboul !  Stamboul ! "  Again  and 
again  he  yelled  the  dog's  name. 

Stamboul  had  not  gone  far.  The  quickset  hedge 
had  baffled  the  scent  for  a  moment  and  he  was  not  a 
dozen  yards  beyond  it  in  the  park  when  his  master's 
cry  stopped  him.  Instantly  he  turned,  cleared  the 
six-foot  hedge  and  double  ditch  at  a  bound  and  came 
leaping  back  across  the  road.  The  squire  breathed 
hard,  for  it  had  been  a  terrible  moment.  If  he  had 
not  succeeded  in  calling  the  beast  back,  it  might  have 
been  all  over  with  Walter  Goddard,  wherever  he  was 
hidden. 

"  It  is  only  his  play,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  still  very 
white  and  holding  Stamboul  by  the  collar.  "  Please 
tell  Mrs.  Goddard,  Martha,  that  I  am  very  sorry  indeed 
to  hear  that  she  is  ill,  and  that  I  will  inquire  this 
evening." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Martha,  who  eyed  the  panting  beast 
timidly  and  showed  an  evident  desire  to  shut  the  door 
as  soon  as  possible. 

The  squire  felt  more  nervous  than  ever  as  he  walked 
slowly  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  his 
hand  still  on  the  bloodhound's  collar.  He  felt  what  a 
narrow  escape  Goddard  had  probably  had,  and  the 
terrible  sound  of  Stamboul's  baying  had  brought  back 


274  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  OHAP. 

to  him  once  again  and  very  vividly  the  scene  in  the 
woods  by  the  Bosphorus.  He  felt  that  for  a  few 
minutes  at  least  he  would  rather  not  enter  the  park 
with  the  dog  by  him,  and  he  naturally  turned  towards 
the  vicarage,  not  with  any  intention  of  going  in,  but 
from  sheer  force  of  custom,  as  people  under  the  influ 
ence  of  strong  emotions  often  do  things  unconsciously 
which  they  are  in  the  habit  of  doing.  He  walked 
slowly  along,  and  had  almost  reached  Mr.  Ambrose's 
pretty  old  red  brick  house,  when  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  vicar's  wife.  She  presented  an  im 
posing  appearance,  as  usual;  her  gray  skirt,  drawn  up 
a  little  from  the  mud,  revealed  a  bright  red  petticoat 
and  those  stout  shoes  which  she  regarded  as  so  essen 
tial  to  health ;  she  wore  moreover  a  capacious  sealskin 
jacket  and  a  dark  bonnet  with  certain  jet  flowers,  which 
for  many  years  had  been  regarded  by  the  inhabitants 
of  Billingsfield  as  the  distinctive  badge  of  a  gentle 
woman.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  wont  to  smile  and  say 
that  they  were  indestructible  and  would  last  as  long 
as  she  did.  She  greeted  Mr.  Juxon  cordially. 

"  How  do  you,  Mr.  Juxon — were  you  coming  to  see 
us  ?  I  was  just  going  for  a  walk — perhaps  you  will 
come  with  me  ? " 

Mr.  Juxon  turned  back  and  prepared  to  accom 
pany  her. 

"  Such  good  news  this  morning,  from  John  Short," 
she  said.  "  He  has  finished  his  examinations,  and  it 
seems  almost  certain  that  he  will  be  senior  classic. 
His  tutor  at  Trinity  has  written  already  to  congratu 
late  my  husband  upon  his  success." 

"  I  am  sure,  I  am  delighted,  too,"  said  the  squire, 
who  had  regained  his  composure  but  kept  his  hold  on 
Stamboul's  collar.  "  He  deserves  all  he  gets,  and  more 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  275 

too,"  he  continued.  "  I  think  he  will  be  a  remark 
able  man." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  liked  him  so  very  much," 
said  Mrs.  Ambrose  rather  doubtfully,  as  she  walked 
slowly  by  his  side. 

"  Oh — I  liked  him  very  much.  Indeed,  I  was 
going  to  ask  him  to  stay  with  me  for  a  few  days  at 
the  Hall." 

The  inspiration  was  spontaneous.  Mr.  Juxon  was 
in  a  frame  of  mind  in  which  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
do  something  pleasant  for  somebody,  to  set  off  against 
the  bloodthirsty  designs  which  had  passed  through  his 
mind  in  the  morning.  He  knew  that  if  he  had  not 
been  over  friendly  to  John,  it  had  been  John's  own 
fault ;  but  since  he  had  found  out  that  it  was  impos 
sible  to  marry  Mrs.  Goddard,  he  had  forgiven  the 
young  scholar  his  shortcomings  and  felt  very  charitably 
inclined  towards  him.  It  suddenly  struck  him  that  it 
would  give  John  great  pleasure  to  stop  at  the  Hall  for 
a  few  days,  and  that  it  would  be  no  inconvenience  to 
himself.  The  effect  upon  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  greater 
even  than  he  had  expected.  She  was  hospitable,  good 
and  kind,  but  she  was  also  economical,  as  she  had 
need  to  be.  The  squire  was  rich.  If  the  squire  would 
put  up  John  during  a  part  of  his  visit  it  would  be  a 
kindness  to  John  himself,  and  an  economy  to  the 
vicarage.  Mr.  Ambrose  himself  would  not  have  gone 
to  such  a  length  ;  but  then,  as  his  wife  said  to  herself 
in  self-defence,  Augustin  did  not  pay  the  butcher's 
bills,  and  did  not  know  how  the  money  went.  She 
did  not  say  that  Augustin  was  precisely  what  is  called 
reckless,  but  he  of  course  did  not  understand  economy 
as  she  did.  How  should  he,  poor  man,  with  all  his 
sermons  and  his  funerals  and  other  occupations  to  take 


276  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

his  mind  off?  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  delighted  at  the 
squire's  proposal. 

"  Eeally  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  That  would  be  too 
good  of  you  Mr.  Juxon.  And  you  do  not  know  how 
it  would  quite  delight  him  !  He  loves  books  so  much, 
and  then  you  know,"  she  added  in  a  confidential 
manner,  "  he  has  never  stayed  in  a  country  house  in 
his  life,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  And  when  is  he  coming  down  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Juxon.  "I  should  be  very  much  pleased  to  have 
him." 

"  To-morrow,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"  Well — would  you  ask  him  from  me  to  come  up 
and  stop  a  week  ?  Can  you  spare  him,  Mrs.  Ambrose  ? 
I  know  you  are  very  fond  of  him,  of  course,  but " 

"  Oh  very,"  said  she  warmly.  "  But  I  think  it  likely 
he  will  stay  some  time,"  she  added  in  explanation  of 
her  willingness  to  let  him  go  to  the  Hall. 

The  squire  felt  vaguely  that  the  presence  of  a  guest 
in  his  house  would  probably  be  a  restraint  upon  him, 
and  he  felt  that  some  restraint  would  be  agreeable  to 
him  at  the  present  time. 

"  Besides,"  added  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "  if  you  would  like 
to  have  him  first — there  is  a  little  repair  necessary  in 
his  room  at  the  vicarage — we  have  put  it  off  too 
long " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  squire,  following  out  his 
own  train  of  thought.  "  Send  him  up  to  me  as  soon 
as  he  comes.  If  I  can  manage  it  I  will  be  down  here 
to  ask  him  myself." 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"  Not  at  all.    Are  you  going  to  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  Yes— why  ? " 

"  Nothing,"   said   Mr.  Juxon.       "  I  did  not  know 


XVII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  277 

whether  you  would  like  to  walk  on  a  little  farther 
with  me.  Good-bye,  then.  You  will  tell  Short  as 
soon  as  he  comes,  will  you  not  ? " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambrose,  still  beaming 
upon  him.  "  I  will  not  let  him  unpack  his  things  at 
the  vicarage.  Good-bye — so  many  thanks." 


278  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTER    XVIIL 

MRS.  GODDARD'S  head  ached  "terrible  bad"  according 
to  Martha,  and  when  the  vicar  left  her  she  went  and 
lay  down  upon  her  bed,  with  a  sensation  that  if  the 
worst  were  not  yet  over  she  could  bear  no  more,  But 
she  had  an  elastic  temperament,  and  the  fact  of  having 
consulted  Mr.  Ambrose  that  morning  had  been  a  greater 
relief  than  she  herself  suspected.  She  felt  that  he 
could  be  trusted  to  save  Mr.  Juxon  from  harm  and 
Walter  from  capture,  and  having  once  confided  to  him 
the  important  secret  which  had  so  heavily  weighed 
upon  her  mind  she  felt  that  the  burthen  of  her  troubles 
was  lightened.  Mr.  Juxon  could  take  any  measures 
he  pleased  for  his  own  safety;  he  would  probably 
choose  to  stay  at  home  until  the  danger  was  past.  As 
for  her  husband,  Mary  Goddard  did  not  believe  that 
he  would  return  a  third  time,  for  she  thought  that  she 
had  thoroughly  frightened  him.  It  was  even  likely 
that  he  had  only  thrown  out  his  threat  for  the  sake  of 
terrifying  his  wife,  and  was  now  far  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  parish.  So  great  was  the  relief  she  felt  after 
she  had  talked  with  the  vicar  that  she  almost  ceased 
to  believe  there  was  any  danger  at  all ;  looking  at  it 
in  the  light  of  her  present  mood,  she  almost  wondered 
why  she  had  thought  it  necessary  to  tell  Mr.  Ambrose 
— until  suddenly  a  vision  of  her  friend  the  squire, 


xvin.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  279 

attacked  and  perhaps  killed,  in  his  own  park,  rose  to 
her  mental  vision,  and  she  remembered  what  agonies  of 
fear  she  had  felt  for  him  until  she  had  sent  for  the  vicar. 
The  latter  indeed  seemed  to  have  been  a  sort  of  deus 
ex  machind  by  whom  she  suddenly  obtained  peace  of 
mind  and  a  sense  of  security  in  the  hour  of  her  greatest 
distress. 

All  that  afternoon  she  lay  upon  her  bed,  while 
Nellie  sat  beside  her  and  read  to  her,  and  stroked  her 
hands ;  for  Nellie  was  in  reality  passionately  fond  of 
her  mother  and  suffered  almost  as  much  at  the  sight 
of  her  suffering  as  she  could  have  done  had  she  been 
in  pain  herself.  Both  Mrs.  Goddard  and  the  child 
started  at  the  sound  of  Stamboul's  baying,  which  was 
unlike  anything  they  had  ever  heard  before,  and  Nellie 
ran  to  the  window. 

"It  is  only  Mr.  Juxon  and  Stamboul  having  a 
game,"  said  Nellie.  "  What  a  noise  he  made,  though ! 
Did  not  he  ? " 

Poor  Nellie — had  she  had  any  idea  of  what  the 
"game"  was  from  which  the  squire  found  it  so  hard 
to  make  his  hound  desist,  she  must  have  gone  almost 
mad  with  horror.  For  the  game  was  her  own  father, 
poor  child.  But  she  came  back  and  sat  beside  her 
mother  utterly  unconscious  of  what  might  have  hap 
pened  if  Stamboul  had  once  got  beyond  earshot,  gallop 
ing  along  the  trail  towards  the  disused  vault  at  the 
back  of  the  church.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  started  at  the 
sounds  and  had  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  but 
Nellie's  explanation  was  enough  to  quiet  her,  and  she 
smiled  faintly  and  closed  her  eyes  again.  Then,  half 
an  hour  later,  Mrs.  Ambrose  came,  and  would  not  be 
denied.  She  wanted  to  make  Mrs.  Goddard  comfort 
able,  she  said,  when  she  found  she  was  ill,  and  she  did 


280  A  TALE  OF  A  LOXELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

her  best,  being  a  kind  and  motherly  woman  when  not 
hardened  by  the  presence  of  strangers.  She  told  her 
that  John  was  coming  on  the  next  day,  speaking  with 
vast  pride  of  his  success  and  omitting  to  look  sternly 
at  Mrs.  Goddard  as  she  had  formerly  been  accustomed 
to  do  when  she  spoke  of  the  young  scholar.  Then  at 
last  she  went  away,  after  exacting  a  promise  from  Mrs. 
Goddard  to  come  and  dine,  bringing  Nellie  with  her, 
on  the  following  day,  in  case  she  should  have  recovered 
by  that  time  from  her  headache. 

But  during  all  that  night  Mrs.  Goddard  lay  awake, 
listening  for  the  sound  she  so  much  dreaded,  of  a 
creeping  footstep  on  the  slated  path  outside  and  for  the 
tapping  at  the  window.  Nothing  came,  however,  and 
as  the  gray  dawn  began  to  creep  in  through  the  white 
curtains,  she  fell  peacefully  asleep.  Nellie  would  not 
let  her  be  waked,  and  breakfasted  without  her,  enjoying 
with  childish  delight  the  state  of  being  waited  on  by 
Martha  alone. 

Meanwhile,  at  an  early  hour,  John  arrived  at  the 
vicarage  and  was  received  with  open  arms  by  Mr. 
Ambrose  and  his  wife.  The  latter  seemed  to  forget, 
in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  again,  that  she  had  even 
once  spoken  doubtfully  of  him  or  hinted  that  he  was 
anything  short  of  perfection  itself.  And  to  prove  how 
much  she  had  done  for  him  she  communicated  with 
great  pride  the  squire's  message,  to  the  effect  that  he 
expected  John  at  the  Hall  that  very  day. 

John's  heart  leaped  with  delight  at  the  idea.  It 
was  natural.  He  was  indeed  most  sincerely  attached 
to  the  Ambroses,  and  most  heartily  glad  to  be  with 
them  ;  but  he  had  never  in  his  life  had  an  opportunity 
of  staying  in  a  "big"  house,  as  he  would  have  de 
scribed  it.  It  seemed  as  though  he  were  already 


XVIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  281 

beginning  to  taste  the  sweet  first-fruits  of  success  after 
all  his  labour  and  all  his  privations ;  it  was  the  first 
taste  of  another  world,  the  first  mouthful  of  the  good 
things  of  life  which  had  fallen  to  his  lot.  Instantly 
there  rose  before  him  delicious  visions  of  hot-water 
cans  brought  by  a  real  footman,  of  luxurious  meals 
served  by  a  real  butler,  of  soft  carpets  perpetually 
beneath  his  feet,  of  liberty  to  lounge  in  magnificent 
chairs  in  the  magnificent  library;  and  last,  though  not 
least,  there  was  a  boyish  feeling  of  delight  in  the 
thought  that  when  he  went  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard  he 
would  go  from  the  Hall,  that  she  would  perhaps  asso 
ciate  him  thenceforth  with  a  different  kind  of  exist 
ence,  in  a  word,  that  he  was  sure  to  acquire  import 
ance  in  her  eyes  from  the  fact  of  his  visit  to  the 
squire.  Many  a  young  fellow  of  one  and  twenty  is  as 
familiar  with  all  that  money  can  give  and  as  tired  of 
luxury  as  a  broken-down  hard  liver  of  forty  years ;  for 
this  is  an  age  of  luxurious  living.  But  poor  John  had 
hardly  ever  tasted  the  least  of  those  things  too  familiar 
to  the  golden  youth  of  the  period  to  be  even  noticed. 
He  had  felt  when  he  first  entered  the  little  drawing- 
room  of  the  cottage  that  Mrs.  Goddard  herself  belonged, 
or  had  belonged,  to  that  delicious  unknown  world  of 
ease  where  the  question  of  expense  was  never  con 
sidered,  much  less  mentioned.  In  her  own  eyes  she 
was  indeed  living  in  a  state  approaching  to  penury, 
but  the  spectacle  of  her  pictures,  her  furniture  and  her 
bibelots  had  impressed  John  with  a  very  different  idea. 
The  squire's  invitation,  asking  him  to  spend  a  week  at 
the  Hall,  seemed  in  a  moment  to  put  him  upon  the 
same  level  as  the  woman  to  whom  he  believed  himself 
so  devotedly  attached.  To  his  mind  the  ideal  woman 
could  not  but  be  surrounded  by  a  luxurious  atmosphere 


282  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  OHAP. 

of  her  own.  To  enter  the  charmed  precincts  of  those 
surroundings  seemed  to  John  equivalent  to  being  trans 
ported  from  the  regions  of  the  Theocritan  to  the  level 
of  the  Anacreontic  ode,  from  the  pastoral,  of  which 
he  had  had  too  much,  to  the  aristocratic,  of  which 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  have  enough.  It  was  a 
natural  feeling  in  a  very  young  man  of  his  limited 
experience. 

He  stayed  some  hours  at  the  vicarage.  Both  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ambrose  thought  him  changed  in  the  short 
time  which  had  elapsed  since  they  had  seen  him.  He 
had  grown  more  grave ; '  he  was  certainly  more  of  a 
man.  The  great  contest  he  had  just  sustained  with 
so  much  honour  had  left  upon  his  young  face  its 
mark,  an  air  of  power  which  had  not  formerly  been 
visible  there ;  even  his  voice  seemed  to  have  grown 
deeper  and  rounder,  and  his  words  carried  more  weight. 
The  good  vicar,  who  had  seen  several  generations  of 
students,  already  distinguished  in  John  Short  the 
budding  "don,"  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  great 
satisfaction. 

John  asked  few  questions  but  found  himself  obliged 
to  answer  many  concerning  his  recent  efforts.  He 
would  have  liked  to  say  something  about-  Mrs.  Goddard, 
but  he  remembered  with  some  awe  and  much  aversion 
the  circumstances  in  which  he  had  last  quitted  the 
vicarage,  and  he  held  his  peace;  whereby  he  again 
rose  in  Mrs.  Ambrose's  estimation.  He  made  up  for 
his  silence  by  speaking  effusively  of  the  squire's  kind 
ness  in  asking  him  to  the  Hall ;  forgetting  perhaps  the 
relief  he  had  felt  when  he  escaped  from  Billiugsfield 
after  Christmas  without  being  again  obliged  to  shake 
hands  with  Mr.  Juxon.  Things  looked  very  differently 
now,  however.  He  felt  himself  to  be  somebody  in  the 


xvni.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  283 

world,  and  that  distressing  sense  of  inferiority  which 
had  perhaps  been  at  the  root  of  his  jealousy  against 
the  squire  was  gone,  swallowed  in  the  sense  of  triumph. 
His  face  was  pale,  perhaps,  from  overwork,  but  there 
was  a  brilliancy  in  his  eyes  and  an  incisiveness  in  his 
speech  which  came  from  the  confidence  of  victory. 
He  now  desired  nothing  more  than  to  meet  the  squire, 
feeling  sure  that  he  should  receive  his  congratulations, 
and  though  he  stayed  some  hours  in  conversation  with 
his  old  friends,  in  imagination  he  was  already  at  the 
HalL  The  squire  had  not  come  down  to  meet  him, 
as  he  had  proposed,  but  he  had  sent  his  outlandish 
American  gig  with  his  groom  to  fetch  John.  While 
he  was  at  the  vicarage  the  latter  was  probably  too 
much  occupied  with  conversation  to  notice  that  Mr. 
Ambrose  seemed  preoccupied  and  changed,  and  the 
vicar  was  to  some  extent  recalled  to  his  usual  manner 
by  the  presence  of  his  pupil.  Mrs.  Ambrose  had 
taxed  her  husband  with  concealing  something  from 
her  ever  since  the  previous  day,  but  the  good  man  was 
obstinate  and  merely  said  that  he  felt  unaccountably 
nervous  and  irritable,  and  begged  her  to  excuse  his 
mood.  Mrs.  Ambrose  postponed  her  cross-examination 
until  a  more  favourable  opportunity  should  present 
itself. 

John  got  into  the  gig  and  drove  away.  He  was  to 
return  with  the  squire  to  dinner  in  the  evening,  and 
he  fully  expected  that  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  would 
be  of  the  party — it  seemed  hardly  likely  that  they 
should  be  omitted.  Indeed,  soon  after  John  had  left 
a  note  arrived  at  the  vicarage  explaining  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  much  better  and  would  certainly  come, 
according  to  Mrs.  Ambrose's  very  kind  invitation. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  the  meeting  which 


284  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

took  place  between  Mr.  Juxon  and  John  Short.  The 
squire  was  hospitable  in  the  extreme  and  expressed 
his  great  satisfaction  at  having  John  under  his  own 
roof  at  last.  He  was  perhaps,  like  the  vicar,  a  little 
nervous,  but  the  young  man  did  not  notice  it,  being 
much  absorbed  by  the  enjoyment  of  his  good  fortune 
and  of  the  mental  rest  he  so  greatly  needed.  Mr. 
Juxon  congratulated  him  warmly  and  expressed-a  hope, 
amounting  to  certainty,  that  John  might  actually  be 
at  the  head  of  the  Tripos ;  to  which  John  modestly 
replied  that  he  would  be  quite  satisfied  to  be  in  the 
first  ten,  knowing  in  his  heart  that  he  should  be  most 
bitterly  disappointed  if  he  were  second  to  any  one.  He 
sat  opposite  to  his  host  in  a  deep  chair  beside  the  fire 
in  the  library  and  revelled  in  comfort  and  ease,  enjoy 
ing  every  trifle  that  fell  in  his  way,  feeling  only  a 
very  slight  diffidence  in  regard  to  himself  for  the  pre 
sent  and  none  at  all  for  the  future.  The  squire  was 
so  cordial  that  he  felt  himself  thoroughly  at  home. 
Indeed  Mr.  Juxon  already  rejoiced  at  his  wisdom  in 
asking  John  to  the  Hall.  The  lad  was  strong,  hopeful, 
well-balanced  in  every  respect  and  his  presence  was  an 
admirable  tonic  to  the  almost  morbid  state  of  anxiety  in 
which  the  squire  had  lived  ever  since  his  interview  with 
Policeman  Gall,  two  days  before.  In  the  sunshine  of 
John's  young  personality,  fears  grew  small  and  hope 
grew  big.  The  ideas  which  had  passed  through  Mr. 
Juxon's  brain  on  the  previous  evening,  just  after  Mr. 
Ambrose  had  warned  him  of  Goddard's  intentions, 
seemed  now  like  the  evil  shadows  of  a  nightmare. 
All  apprehension  lest  the  convict  should  attempt  to 
execute  his  threats  disappeared  like  darkness  before 
daylight,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  or  two  the 
squire  found  himself  laughing  and  chatting  with  his 


x\rni.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAE1SH.  285 

guest  as  though  there  were  no  such  things  as  forgery 
or  convicts  in  the  world.  The  afternoon  passed  very 
pleasantly  between  the  examination  of  Mr.  Juxon's 
treasures  and  the  conversation  those  objects  elicited. 
For  John,  who  was  an  accomplished  scholar,  had  next 
to  no  knowledge  of  bibliology  and  took  delight  in 
seeing  for  the  first  time  many  a  rare  edition  which  he 
had  heard  mentioned  or  had  read  of  in  the  course  of 
his  studies.  He  would  not  have  believed  that  he 
could  be  now  talking  on  such  friendly  terms  with  a 
man  for  whom  he  had  once  felt  the  strongest  antipathy, 
and  Mr.  Juxon  on  his  part  felt  that  in  their  former 
meetings  he  had  not  done  full  justice  to  the  young 
man's  undoubted  talents. 

As  they  drove  down  to  the  vicarage  that  evening 
Mrs.  Goddard's  name  was  mentioned  for  the  first 
time.  John,  with  a  fine  affectation  of  indifference, 
asked  how  she  was. 

"  She  has  not  been  very  well  lately,"  answered  Mr. 
Juxon. 

"  What  has  been  the  matter  ? "  inquired  John,  who 
could  not  see  his  companion's  face  in  the  dark  shade 
of  the  trees. 

"  Headache,  I  believe,"  returned  the  squire  laconi 
cally,  and  silence  ensued  for  a  few  moments.  "I 
should  not  wonder  if  it  rained  again  this  evening,"  he 
added  presently  as  they  passed  through  the  park  gate, 
out  into  the  road.  The  sky  was  black  and  it  was  hard 
to  see  anything  beyond  the  yellow  streak  of  light 
which  fell  from  the  lamps  and  ran  along  the  road 
before  the  gig. 

"If  it  turns  out  a  fine  night,  don't  come  for  us. 
We  will  walk  home,"  said  the  squire  to  the  groom  as 
they  descended  before  the  vicarage  and  Stamboul,  who 


286  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

had  sat  on  the  floor  between  them,  sprang  down  to  the 
ground. 

John  was  startled  when  he  met  Mrs.  Goddard.  He 
was  amazed  at  the  change  in  her  appearance  for  which 
no  one  had  prepared  him.  She  met  him  indeed  very 
cordially  but  he  felt  as  though  she  were  not  the  same 
woman  he  had  known  so  short  a  time  before.  There 
was  still  in  her  face  that  delicate  pathetic  expression 
which  had  at  first  charmed  him,  there  was  still  the 
same  look  in  her  eyes ;  but  what  had  formerly  seemed 
so  attractive  seemed  now  exaggerated.  Her  cheeks 
looked  wan  and  hollow  and  there  were  deep  shadows 
about  her  eyes  and  temples ;  her  lips  had  lost  their 
colour  and  the  lines  about  her  mouth  had  suddenly 
become  apparent  where  John  had  not  before  suspected 
them.  She  looked  ten  years  older  as  she  put  her  thin 
hand  in  his  and  smiled  pleasantly  at  his  greeting. 
Some  trite  phrase  about  the  "  ravages  of  time  "  crossed 
John's  mind  and  gave  him  a  disagreeable  sensation, 
for  which  it  was  hard  to  account.  He  felt  as  though 
his  dream  were  suddenly  dead  and  a  strange  reality 
had  taken  life  in  its  place.  Could  this  be  she  to  whom 
he  had  written  verses  by  the  score,  at  whose  smile  he 
had  swelled  with  pride,  at  whose  careless  laugh  he  had 
trembled  with  shame  ?  She  was  terribly  changed,  she 
looked  positively  old — what  John  called  old.  As  he 
sat  by  her  side  talking  and  wondering  whether  he 
would  fall  back  into  those  same  grooves  of  conversation 
he  had  associated  with  her  formerly,  he  felt  something 
akin  to  pity  for  her,  which  he  had  certainly  never  ex 
pected  to  feel.  She  was  not  the  same  as  before — even 
the  tone  of  her  voice  was  different ;  she  was  gentle, 
pathetic,  endowed  even  now  with  many  charms,  but 
she  was  not  the  woman  he  had  dreamed  of  and  tried 


xvill.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  287 

to  speak  to  of  the  love  he  fancied  was  in  his  heart. 
She  talked — yes ;  but  there  were  long  pauses,  and 
her  eyes  wandered  strangely  from  him,  often  towards 
the  windows  of  the  vicarage  drawing-room,  often 
towards  the  doors;  her  answers  were  not  always  to 
the  point  and  her  interest  seemed  to  flag  in  what  was 
said.  John  could  not  fail  to  notice  too  that  both 
Mr.  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Juxon  treated  her  with  the  kind 
of  attention  which  is  bestowed  upon  invalids,  and  the 
vicar's  wife  was  constantly  doing  something  to  make 
her  comfortable,  offering  her  a  footstool,  shading  the 
light  from  her  eyes,  asking  if  she  felt  any  draught 
where  she  sat.  These  were  things  no  one  had  for 
merly  thought  of  doing  for  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  in  spite 
of  her  sad  face  had  been  used  to  laugh  merrily  enough 
with  the  rest,  and  whose  lithe  figure  had  seemed  to 
John  the  embodiment  of  youthful  activity.  At  last 
he  ventured  to  ask  her  a  question. 

"  Have  you  been  ill,  Mrs.  Goddard  ?  "  he  inquired  in 
a  voice  full  of  interest.  Her  soft  eyes  glanced  uneasily 
at  him.  He  was  now  the  only  one  of  the  party  who 
was  not  in  some  degree  acquainted  with  her  troubles. 

"  Oh  no  ! "  she  answered  nervously.  "  Only  a  little 
headache.  It  always  makes  me  quite  wretched  when 
I  have  it." 

"  Yes.  I  often  have  headaches,  too,"  answered  John. 
"  The  squire  told  me  as  we  came  down." 

"  "What  did  he  tell  you  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Goddard  so 
quickly  as  to  startle  her  companion. 

"  Oh — only  that  you  had  not  been  very  well.  Where 
is  it  that  you  suffer  ?  "  he  asked  sympathetically.  "  I 
think  it  is  worst  when  it  seems  to  be  in  the  very  centre 
of  one's  head,  like  a  red-hot  nail  being  driven  in  with 
a  hammer — is  that  like  what  you  feel  ? " 


288  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I — yes,  I  daresay.  I  don't  quite  know,"  she  an 
swered,  her  eyes  wandering  uneasily  about  the  room. 
"  I  suppose  you  have  dreadful  headaches  over  your 
work,  do  you  not,  Mr.  Short  ? "  she  added  quickly, 
feeling  that  she  must  say  something. 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  over  now,"  said  John  rather  proudly. 
But  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  he  said  to  himself 
that  this  meeting  was  not  precisely  what  he  had 
anticipated;  the  subject  of  headaches  might  have  a 
fine  interest  in  its  way,  but  he  had  expected  to  have 
talked  of  more  tender  things.  To  his  own  great  sur 
prise  he  felt  no  desire  to  do  so,  however.  He  had  not 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  seeing  that  Mrs.  Goddard 
had  grown  old. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  kindly.  "  How  glad  you  must  be ! 
To  have  done  so  splendidly  too — you  must  feel  that 
you  have  realised  a  magnificent  dream." 

"No,"  said  John.  "I  cannot  say  I  do.  I  have 
done  the  thing  I  meant  to  do,  or  I  have  good  reason 
to  believe  that  I  have ;  but  I  have  not  realised  my 
dream.  I  shall  never  write  any  more  odes,  Mrs. 
Goddard." 

"  Why  not  ?  Oh,  you  mean  to  me,  Mr.  Short  ? " 
she  added  with  something  of  her  old  manner.  "  Well, 
you  know,  it  is  much  better  that  you  should  not." 

"Perhaps  so,"  answered  John  rather  sadly.  "I 
don't  know.  Frankly,  Mrs.  Goddard,  did  not  you 
sometimes  think  I  was  very  foolish  last  Christmas  ? " 

"  Very,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  kindly.  "  But  I 
think  you  have  changed.  I  think  you  are  more  of  a 
man,  now — you  have  something  more  serious " 

"  I  used  to  think  I  was  very  serious,  and  so  I  was," 
said  John,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  refers  to  the 
follies  of  his  long  past  youth.  "  Do  you  remember 


xvin.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  289 

how  angry  I  was  when  you  wanted  me  to  skate  with 
Miss  Nellie  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  only  said  that  to  teaze  you,"  Mrs.  Goddard 
answered.  "  I  daresay  you  would  be  angry  now,  if  I 
suggested  the  same  thing." 

"No,"  said  John  quietly.  "I  do  not  believe  I 
should  be.  As  you  say,  I  feel  very  much  older  now 
than  I  did  then." 

"  The  older  we  grow  the  more  we  like  youth,"  said 
.Mary  Goddard,  unconsciously  uttering  one  of  the 
fundamental  truths  of  human  nature,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  precisely  striking  the  current  of  John's 
thoughts  that  he  started.  He  was  wondering  within 
himself  why  it  was  that  she  now  seemed  too  old  for 
him,  whereas  a  few  short  months  ago  she  had  seemed 
to  be  of  his  own  age. 

"  How  true  that  is  ! "  he  exclaimed.  Mrs.  Goddard 
laughed  faintly. 

"You  are  not  old  enough  to  have  reached  that 
point  yet,  Mr.  Short,"  she  said.  "Eeally,  here  we 
are  moralising  like  a  couple  of  old  philosophers  ! " 

"  This  is  a  moralising  season,"  answered  John. 
"When  we  last  met,  it  was  all  holly-berries  and 
Christmas  and  plum-pudding." 

"  How  long  ago  that  seems ! "  exclaimed  the  poor 
lady  with  a  sigh. 

"  Ages ! "  echoed  John,  sighing  in  his  turn,  but  not 
so  much  for  sadness,  it  may  be,  as  from  relief  that  the 
great  struggle  was  over.  That  time  of  anxiety  and 
terrible  effort  seemed  indeed  very  far  removed  from 
him,  but  its  removal  was  a  cause  of  joy  rather  than 
of  sadness.  He  sighed  like  a  man  who,  sitting  over  his 
supper,  remembers  the  hard  fought  race  he  has  won  in 
the  afternoon,  feeling  yet  in  his  limbs  the  ability  to  race 

u 


290  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

and  win  again  but  feeling  in  his  heart  the  delicious 
consciousness  that  the  question  of  his  superiority  has 
been  decided  beyond  all  dispute. 

"And  now  you  will  stay  here  a  long  time,  of 
course,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  presently. 

•"I  am  stopping  at  the  Hall,  just  now,"  said  John 
with  a  distinct  sense  of  the  importance  of  the  fact, 
"and  after  a  week  I  shall  stay  here  a  few  days. 
Then  I  shall  go  to  London  to  see  my  father." 

"No  one  will  be  so  glad  as  he  to  hear  of  your 
success." 

"  No  indeed.  I  really  think  it  is  more  for  his  sake 
that  I  want  to  be  actually  first,"  said  John.  "Do 
you  know,  I  have  so  often  thought  how  he  will  look 
when  I  meet  him  and  tell  him  I  am  the  senior 
classic." 

John's  voice  trembled  and  as  Mrs.  Goddard  looked 
at  him,  she  thought  she  saw  a  moisture  in  his  eyes. 
It  pleased  her  to  see  it,  for  it  showed  that  John  Short 
had  more  heart  than  she  had  imagined. 

"  I  can  fancy  that,"  she  said,  warmly.  "  I  envy 
you  that  moment." 

Presently  the  squire  came  over  to  where  they  were 
sitting  and  joined  them ;  and  then  Mrs.  Ambrose 
spoke  to  John,  and  Nellie  came  and  asked  him  ques 
tions.  Strange  to  say  John  felt  none  of  that  annoy 
ance  which  he  formerly  felt  when  his  conversations 
with  Mrs.  Goddard  were  interrupted,  and  he  talked 
with  Nellie  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  quite  as  readily  as 
with  her.  He  felt  very  calm  and  happy  that  night, 
as  though  he  had  done  with  the  hard  labour  of  life. 
In  half  an  hour  he  had  realised  that  he  was  no  more 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Goddard  than  he  was  with  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  and  he  was  trying  to  explain  to  himself  how 


xvni.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  291 

it  was  that  he  had  ever  believed  in  such  a  palpable 
absurdity.  Love  was  doubtless  blind,  he  thought,  but 
he  was  surely  not  so  blind  as  to  overlook  the  evi 
dences  of  Mrs.  Goddard's  age.  All  the  dreams  of  that 
morning  faded  away  before  the  sight  of  her  face,  and  so 
deep  is  the  turpitude  of  the  best  of  human  hearts  that 
John  was  almost  ashamed  of  having  once  thought 
he  loved  her.  That  was  probably  the  best  possible 
proof  that  his  love  had  been  but  a  boyish  fancy. 

What  the  little  party  at  the  vicarage  would  have 
been  like,  if  John's  presence  had  not  animated  it, 
would  be  hard  to  say.  The  squire  and  Mr.  Ambrose 
treated  Mrs.  Goddard  with  the  sort  of  paternal  but 
solemn  care  which  is  usually  bestowed  either  upon 
great  invalids  or  upon  persons  bereaved  of  some  very 
dear  relation.  The  two  elder  men  occasionally  looked 
at  her  and  exchanged  glances  when  they  were  not 
observed  by  Mrs.  Ambrose,  wondering  perhaps  what 
would  next  befall  the  unfortunate  lady  and  whether 
she  could  bear  much  more  of  the  excitement  and 
anxiety  to  which  she  had  of  late  been  subjected.  On 
the  whole  the  conversation  was  far  from  being  lively, 
and  Mrs.  Goddard  herself  felt  that  it  was  a  relief  when 
the  hour  came  for  going  home. 

The  vicar  had  ordered  his  dog-cart  for  her  and 
Nellie,  but  as  the  night  had  turned  out  better  than 
had  been  expected  Mr.  Juxon's  groom  had  not  come 
down  from  the  Hall.  Both  he  and  John  would  be 
glad  of  the  walk ;  it  had  not  rained  for  two  days  and 
the  roads  were  dry. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  squire,  as  they  rose  to  take 
their  leave,  "Mr.  Short  had  better  go  as  far  as  the 
cottage  in  the  dog-cart,  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard  home. 
I  will  go  ahead  on  foot — I  shall  probably  be  there 


292  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

as  soon  as  you.  There  is  not  room  tor  us  all,  and 
somebody  must  go  with  her,  you  know.  Besides,"  he 
added,  "  I  have  got  Stamboul  with  me." 

Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  standing  beside  the  squire, 
laid  her  hand  beseechingly  upon  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't,"  she  said  in  low  voice.  "  Why 
have  you  not  got  your  carriage  ? " 

"  Never  mind  me,"  he  answered  in  the  same  tone. 
"  I  am  all  right,  I  like  to  walk." 

Before  she  could  say  anything  more,  he  had  shaken 
hands  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  was  gone. 
Perhaps  in  his  general  determination  to  be  good  to 
everybody  he  fancied  that  John  would  enjoy  the 
short  drive  with  Mrs.  Goddard  better  than  the  walk 
with  himself. 

But  when  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Goddard  grew  very 
nervous.  One  of  her  wraps  could  not  be  found,  and 
while  search  was  being  made  for  it  the  motherly  Mrs. 
Ambrose  insisted  upon  giving  her  something  hot,  in 
the  way  of  brandy  and  water.  She  looked  very  ill, 
but  showed  the  strongest  desire  to  go.  It  was  no 
matter  about  the  shawl,  she  said ;  Mr.  Ambrose  could 
send  it  in  the  morning ;  but  the  thing  was  found  and 
at  last  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  and  John  got  into 
the  dog-cart  with  old  Reynolds  and  drove  off.  All 
these  things  consumed  some  time. 

The  squire  on  the  other  hand  strode  briskly  for 
ward  towards  the  cottage,  not  wishing  to  keep  John 
waiting  for  him.  As  he  walked  his  mind  wandered 
back  to  the  consideration  of  the  almost  tragic  events 
which  were  occurring  in  the  peaceful  village.  He 
forgot  all  about  John,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  half 
moon  which  struggled  to  give  some  light  through  the 
driving  clouds ;  he  fell  to  thinking  of  Mrs.  Goddard 


XVIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  293 

and  to  wondering  where  her  husband  might  be  lying 
hidden.  The  road  was  lonely  and  he  walked  fast, 
with  Stamboul  close  at  his  heel.  The  dog-cart  did 
not  overtake  him  before  he  reached  the  cottage,  and 
he  forgot  all  about  it.  By  sheer  force  of  habit  he 
opened  the  white  gate  and,  closing  it  behind  him, 
entered  the  park  alone. 


294  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE   XIX. 

JOHN'S  impression  of  Mrs.  Goddard  was  strengthened 
by  the  scene  at  the  vicarage  at  the  moment  of  leav 
ing.  The  extraordinary  nervousness  she  betrayed,  the 
anxiety  for  her  welfare  shown  by  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  the 
grave  face  of  the  vicar  all  favoured  the  idea  that  she 
had  become  an  invalid  since  he  had  last  met  her.  He 
himself  fell  into  the  manner  of  those  about  him  and 
spoke  in  low  tones  and  moved  delicately  as  though 
fearing  to  offend  her  sensitive  nerves.  The  vicar  alone 
understood  the  situation  and  had  been  very  much 
surprised  at  the  squire's  sudden  determination  to  walk 
home ;  he  would  gladly  have  seized  his  hat  and  run 
after  his  friend,  but  he  feared  Mrs.  Ambrose's  curiosity 
and  moreover  on  reflection  felt  sure  that  the  dog-cart 
would  overtake  Mr.  Juxon  before  he  was  half  way  to 
the  cottage.  He  was  very  far  from  suspecting  him  of 
the  absence  of  mind  which  he  actually  displayed,  but 
it  was  a  great  relief  to  him  to  see  the  little  party  safe 
in  the  dog-cart  and  on  the  way  homeward. 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  on  the  front  seat  with  old  Eey- 
nolds,  and  John,  who  would  have  preferred  to  sit  by 
her  side  a  few  months  ago,  was  glad  to  find  himself 
behind  with  Nellie.  It  was  a  curious  instinct,  but  he 
felt  it  strongly  and  was  almost  grateful  to  the  old  man 
for  stolidly  keeping  his  seat.  So  he  sat  beside  Nellie 


xix.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         295 

and  talked  to  her,  to  the  child's  intense  delight ;  she 
had  not  enjoyed  the  evening  very  much,  for  she  felt 
the  general  sense  of  oppression  as  keenly  as  children 
always  feel  such  things,  and  she  had  long  exhausted 
the  slender  stock  of  illustrated  books  which  lay  upon 
the  table  in  the  vicarage  drawing-room. 

"  There  is  no  more  skating  now,"  said  John.  "  What 
do  you  do  to  amuse  yourselves  ?" 

"I  am  studying  history  with  mamma,"  answered 
Nellie,  "  and  that  takes  ever  so  much  time,  you  know. 
And  then — oh,  we  are  beginning  to  think  of  the  spring, 
and  we  look  after  the  violet  plants  in  the  frames." 

"It  does  not  feel  much  like  spring,"  remarked 
John. 

"  No — and  mamma  has  not  been  well  lately,  so  we 
have  not  done  much  of  anything." 

"  Has  she  been  ill  long  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  No — oh  no !  Only  the  last  two  or  three  days, 
ever  since — "  Nellie  stopped  herself.  Her  mother  had 
told  her  not  to  mention  the  tramp's  visit. 

"  Ever  since  when  ? "  asked  John,  becoming  suddenly 
interested. 

"Ever  since  the  last  time  the  Ambroses  came  to 
tea,"  said  Nellie  with  a  readiness  beyond  her  years. 
"  But  she  looks  dreadfully,  does  not  she  ? " 

"  Dreadfully,"  answered  John.  Then,  leaning  back 
and  turning  his  head  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  I 
hope  you  are  quite  warm  enough  ? "  he  said. 

"Quite — thanks,"  answered  she,  but  her  voice  sounded 
tremulous  in  the  night.  It  might  have  been  the  shak 
ing  of  the  dog-cart.  In  a  few  minutes  they  drew  up 
before  the  door  of  the  cottage.  John  sprang  to  the 
ground  and  almost  lifted  Mrs.  Goddard  from  the  high 
seat. 


296  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  OHAP. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Juxon  ? "  she  asked  anxiously. 

John  looked  round,  peering  into  the  gloom.  A 
black  cloud  driven  by  the  strong  east  wind  was  passing 
over  the  moon,  and  for  some  moments  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  see  anything.  The  squire  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  John  turned  and  helped  Nellie  off  the 
back  seat  of  the  dog-cart. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  must  have  passed  him,"  he  said 
quietly.  Formerly  Mrs.  Goddard's  tone  of  anxiety 
as  she  asked  for  the  squire  would  have  roused  John's 
resentment ;  he  now  thought  nothing  of  it.  Eeynolds 
prepared  to  move  off. 

"  Won't  you  please  wait  a  moment,  Eeynolds  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Goddard,  going  close  to  the  old  man.  She  could 
not  have  told  why  she  asked  him  to  stay,  it  was  a 
nervous  impulse. 

"  Why  ? "  asked  John.  "  You  know  I  am  going  to 
the  Hall." 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  only  thought,  perhaps,  you  and 
Mr.  Juxon  would  like  to  drive  up — it  is  so  dark.  I 
am  sure  Mr.  Ambrose  would  not  mind  you  taking  the 
gentlemen  up  to  the  Hall,  Reynolds  ? " 

"No  m'm.  I'm  quite  sure  as  he  wouldn't,"  ex 
claimed  Reynolds  with  great  alacrity.  He  immediately 
had  visions  of  a  pint  of  beer  in  the  Hall  kitchen. 

"  You  do  not  think  Mr.  Juxon  may  have  gone  on 
alone,  Mr.  Short  ? "  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  leaning  upon 
the  wicket  gate.  Her  face  looked  very  pale  in  the 
gloom. 

"No — it  would  be  very  odd  if  he  did,"  replied 
John,  who  had  his  hands  in  his  greatcoat  pockets 
and  slowly  stamped  one  foot  after  another  on  the 
hard  ground,  to  keep  himself  warm. 

"Then   we  must   have   passed   him  on  the  road," 


XIX.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         297 

said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  But  I  was  so  sure  I  saw 
nobody " 

"I  think  he  will  come  presently,"  answered  John 
in  a  reassuring  tone.  "  Why  do  you  wait,  Mrs. 
Goddard  ?  You  must  be  cold,  and  it  is  dangerous 
for  you  to  be  out  here.  Don't  wait,  Eeynolds,"  he 
added  ;  "  we  will  walk  up." 

"  Oh  please  don't,"  cried  Mrs.  Goddard,  imploringly. 

John  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  The  cloud 
suddenly  passed  from  before  the  moon  and  he  could 
see  her  anxious  upturned  face  quite  plainly.  He 
could  not  in  the  least  understand  the  cause  of  her 
anxiety,  but  he  supposed  her  nervousness  was  con 
nected  with  her  indisposition.  Eeynolds  on  his  part, 
being  anxious  for  beer,  showed  no  disposition  to  move, 
but  sat  with  stolid  indifference,  loosely  holding  the 
reins  while  Strawberry,  the  old  mare,  hung  down 
her  head  and  stamped  from  time  to  time  in  a  feeble 
and  antiquated  fashion.  For  some  minutes  there 
was  total  silence.  Not  a  step  was  to  be  heard  upon 
the  road,  not  a  sound  of  any  kind,  save  the  strong 
east  wind  rushing  past  the  cottage  and  losing  itself 
among  the  withered  oaks  of  the  park  opposite. 

Suddenly  a  deep  and  bell-mouthed  note  resounded 
through  the  air.  Strawberry  started  in  the  shafts 
and  trembled  violently. 

"  Stamboul !  Stamboul !  "  The  squire's  ringing 
voice  was  heard  far  up  the  park.  The  bloodhound's 
distant  baying  suddenly  ceased.  John  thought  he 
heard  a  fainter  cry,  inarticulate,  and  full  of  distress, 
through  the  sighing  wind.  Then  there  was  silence 
again.  Mrs.  Goddard  leaned  back  against  the  wicket 
gate,  and  Nellie,  startled  by  the  noises,  pressed  close 
to  her  mother's  side. 


298  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

"  Why — he  has  gone  up  the  park  ! "  exclaimed 
John  in  great  surprise.  "He  was  calling  to  his 
dog " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Short ! "  cried  Mrs.  Goddard  in  agonised 
tones,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak,  "  I  am  sure  some 
thing  dreadful  has  happened — do  go,  Mr.  Short — do 
go  and  see " 

Something  of  the  extreme  alarm  that  sounded  in 
her  voice  seized  upon  John. 

"  Stay  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  Eeynolds,"  he  said 
quickly  and  darted  across  the  road  towards  the  park 
gate.  John  was  strong  and  active.  He  laid  his 
hands  upon  the  highest  rails  and  vaulted  lightly 
over,  then  ran  at  the  top  of  his  speed  up  the  dark 
avenue. 

Mr.  Juxon,  in  his  absence  of  mind,  had  gone 
through  the  gate  alone,  swinging  his  blackthorn 
stick  in  his  hand,  Stamboul  stalking  at  his  heel  in 
the  gloom.  He  was  a  fearless  man  and  the  presence 
of  John  during  the  afternoon  had  completely  dissolved 
that  nervous  presentiment  of  evil  he  had  felt  before 
his  guest's  coming.  But  in  the  short  walk  of  scarcely 
half  a  mile,  from  the  vicarage  to  the  cottage,  his 
thoughts  had  become  entirely  absorbed  in  considering 
Mrs.  Goddard's  strange  position,  and  for  the  moment 
John  was  quite  forgotten.  He  entered  the  park  and 
the  long  iron  latch  of  the  wooden  gate  fell  into  its 
socket  behind  him  with  a  sharp  click.  Mr.  Juxon 
walked  quickly  on  and  Stamboul  trod  noiselessly 
behind  him.  At  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
gate  the  avenue  turned  sharply  to  the  right,  winding 
about  a  little  elevation  in  the  ground,  where  the  trees 
stood  thicker  than  elsewhere.  As  he  came  towards 
this  hillock  the  strong  east  wind  blew  sharply  behind 


XIX.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.         299 

him.  Had  the  wind  been  in  the  opposite  direction, 
StambouTs  sharp  nostrils  would  have  scented  danger. 
As  it  was  he  gave  no  sign  but  stalked  solemnly  at  the 
squire's  heels.  The  faint  light  of  the  half  moon  was 
obscured  at  that  moment,  as  has  been  seen,  by  a 
sweeping  cloud.  The  squire  turned  to  the  right  and 
tramped  along  the  hard  road. 

At  the  darkest  spot  in  the  way  a  man  sprang  out 
suddenly  before  him  and  struck  a  quick  blow  at  his 
head  with  something  heavy.  But  it  was  very  dark. 
The  blow  was  aimed  at  his  head,  but  fell  upon  the 
heavy  padded  frieze  of  his  ulster  greatcoat,  grazing 
the  brim  of  his  hat  as  it  passed  and  knocking  it  off 
his  head.  Mr.  Juxon  staggered  and  reeled  to  one 
side.  At  the  same  instant — it  all  happened  in  the 
space  of  two  seconds,  Stamboul  sprang  past  his  master 
and  his  bulk,  striking  the  squire  at  the  shoulder  just  as 
he  was  staggering  from  the  blow  he  had  received,  sent 
him  rolling  into  the  ditch ;  by  the  same  cause  the 
hound's  direction  as  he  leaped  was  just  so  changed 
that  he  missed  his  aim  and  bounded  past  the  murderer 
into  the  darkness.  Before  the  gigantic  beast  could 
recover  himself  and  turn  to  spring  again,  Walter 
Goddard,  who  had  chanced  never  to  see  Stamboul 
and  little  suspected  his  presence,  leaped  the  ditch 
and  fled  rapidly  through  the  dark  shadow.  But  death 
was  at  his  heels.  Before  the  squire,  who  was  very 
little  hurt,  could  get  upon  his  feet,  the  bloodhound 
had  found  the  scent  and,  uttering  his  deep-mouthed 
baying  note,  sprang  upon  the  track  of  the  flying  man. 
Mr.  Juxon  got  across  the  ditch  and  followed  him  into 
the  gloom. 

"  Stamboul !  Stamboul ! "  he  roared  as  he  ran. 
But  before  he  had  gone  thirty  yards  he  heard  a  heavy 


300  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

fall.  The  hound's  cry  ceased  and  a  short  scream  broke 
the  silence. 

A  moment  later  the  squire  was  dragging  the  in 
furiated  animal  from  the  prostrate  body  of  Walter 
Goddard.  Stamboul  had  tasted  blood;  it  was  no 
easy  matter  to  make  him  relinquish  his  prey.  The 
cloud  passed  from  the  moon,  driven  before  the  blast, 
and  a  ray  of  light  fell  through  the  trees  upon  the 
scene.  Juxon  stood  wrestling  with  his  hound,  holding 
to  his  heavy  collar  with  both  hands  with  all  his  might. 
He  dared  not  let  go  for  an  instant,  well  knowing  that 
the  frenzied  beast  would  tear  his  victim  limb  from 
limb.  But  Juxon's  hands  were  strong,  and  though 
Stamboul  writhed  and  his  throat  rattled  he  could  not 
free  himself.  The  squire  glanced  at  the  body  of  the 
fallen  man,  just  visible  in  the  flickering  moonlight. 
Walter  Goddard  lay  quite  still  upon  his  back.  If 
he  was  badly  wounded  it  was  not  possible  to  say 
where  the  wound  was. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  Mr.  Juxon  felt  that  he 
could  not  leave  the  man  thus,  not  knowing  whether 
he  were  ah' ve  or  dead ;  and  yet  while  all  his  strength 
was  exerted  to  the  full  in  controlling  the  bloodhound, 
it  was  impossible  to  approach  a  step  nearer.  He  was 
beginning  to  think  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  take 
Stamboul  to  the  Hall  and  return  again  to  the  scene  of 
the  disaster. 

"  Mr.  Juxon  !  Juxon  !  Juxon  ! "  John  was  shouting 
as  he  ran  up  the  park. 

"  This  way !  look  sharp ! "  yelled  the  squire,  fore 
seeing  relief.  John's  quick  footsteps  rang  on  the 
hard  road.  The  squire  called  again  and  in  a  moment 
the  young  man  had  joined  him  and  stood  horror-struck 
at  what  he  saw. 


xix.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         301 

"  Don't  touch  the  dog ! "  cried  the  squire.  "  Don't 
come  near  him,  I  say ! "  he  added  as  John  came  for 
ward.  "There  —  there  has  been  an  accident  Mr. 
Short,"  he  added  in  calmer  tones.  "  Would  you  mind 
seeing  if  the  fellow  is  alive  ?  " 

John  was  too  much  startled  to  say  anything,  but  he 
went  and  knelt  down  by  Goddard's  body  and  looked 
into  his  face. 

"  Feel  his  pulse,"  said  the  squire.  "  Listen  at  his 
heart."  To  him  it  seemed  a  very  simple  matter  to 
ascertain  whether  a  man  were  alive  or  dead.  But 
John  was  nervous ;  he  had  never  seen  a  dead  man  in 
his  life  and  felt  that  natural  repulsion  to  approaching 
death  which  is  common  to  all  living  creatures.  There 
was  no  help  for  it,  however,  and  he  took  Walter  God 
dard's  limp  hand  in  his  and  tried  to  find  his  pulse ;  he 
could  not  distinguish  any  beating.  The  hand  fell 
nerveless  to  the  ground. 

"  I  think  he  is  dead,"  said  John  very  softly,  and  he 
rose  to  his  feet  and  drew  back  a  little  way  from  the 
body. 

"  Then  just  wait  five  minutes  for  me,  if  you  do  not 
mind,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  and  he  turned  away  dragging 
the  reluctant  and  still  struggling  Stamboul  by  his 
side. 

John  shuddered  when  he  was  left  alone.  It  was 
indeed  a  dismal  scene  enough.  At  his  feet  lay  Walter 
Goddard's  body,  faintly  illuminated  by  the  struggling 
moonbeams;  all  around  and  overhead  the  east  wind 
was  howling  and  whistling  and  sighing  in  the  dry  oak 
branches,  whirling  hither  and  thither  the  few  brown 
leaves  that  had  clung  to  their  hold  throughout  the 
long  winter ;  the  sound  of  the  squire's  rapidly  retreat 
ing  footsteps  grew  more  faint  in  the  distance ;  John 


302  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

felt  that  he  was  aloue  and  was  very  uncomfortable. 
He  would  have  liked  to  go  back  to  the  cottage  and  tell 
Mrs.  Goddard  of  what  had  happened,  and  that  Mr. 
Juxon  was  safe ;  but  he  thought  the  squire  might 
return  and  find  that  he  had  left  his  post  and  accuse 
him  of  cowardice.  He  drew  back  from  the  man's 
body  and  sheltered  himself  from  the  wind,  leaning 
against  the  broad  trunk  of  an  old  oak  tree.  He  had 
not  stood  thus  many  minutes  when  he  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  upon  the  hard  road.  It  might  be 
Mrs.  Goddard,  he  thought.  With  one  more  glance  at 
the  prostrate  body,  he  turned  away  and  hurried 
through  the  trees  towards  the  avenue.  The  bright 
lamps  of  the  dog-cart  were  almost  close  before  him. 
He  shouted  to  Eeynolds. 

"Whoa,  January !"  ejaculated  that  ancient  functionary 
as  he  pulled  up  Strawberry  close  to  John  Short.  Why 
the  natives  of  Essex  and  especially  of  Billingsfield 
habitually  address  their  beasts  of  burden  as  "January" 
is  a  matter  best  left  to  the  discrimination  of  philo- 
logers ;  obedient  to  the  familiar  words  however,  Straw 
berry  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  John 
could  see  that  Mrs.  Goddard  was  seated  by  the  side  of 
Eeynolds  but  that  Nellie  was  not  in  the  cart. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Goddard,  is  that  you  ? "  said  John. 
"Mr.  Juxon  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  Don't  be 
frightened — he  is  not  hurt  in  the  least ;  awfully  bad 
luck  for  the  tramp,  though ! " 

"  The  tramp  ? "  repeated  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  faint 
cry  of  horror. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  whose  spirits  rose  wonderfully 
in  the  light  of  the  dog-cart  lamps.  "  There  was  a 
poor  tramp  hanging  about  the  park — poaching,  very 
likely — and  Mr.  Juxon's  dog  got  after  him,  somehow, 


xix.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         303 

I  suppose.  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  when 
I  came  up— oh !  here  is  Mr.  Juxon  himself — he  will 
tell  you  all  about  it" 

The  squire  came  up  in  breathless  haste,  having 
locked  Stamboul  into  the  house. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  Mrs.  Goddard  ! "  he  ejaculated  in 
a  tone  of  profound  surprise.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  gave 
no  answer.  The  squire  sprang  upon  the  step  and 
looked  closely  at  her.  She  lay  back  against  old 
Eeynolds's  shoulder,  very  pale,  with  her  eyes  shut. 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  fainted.  The  old  man 
seemed  not  to  comprehend  what  had  happened ;  he 
had  never  experienced  the  sensation  of  having  a  lady 
leaning  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  looked  down  at  her 
with  a  half  idiotic  smile  on  his  deeply  furrowed 
face. 

"  She's  took  wuss,  sir,"  he  remarked.  "  She  was  all 
for  comin'  up  the  park  as  soon  as  Master  John  was 
gone.  She  warn't  feelin'  herself  o'  no  account  t' 
evenin'." 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Short,"  said  the  squire  decisively. 
"  I  must  ask  you  to  take  Mrs.  Goddard  home  again 
and  call  her  women  to  look  after  her.  I  fancy  she 
will  come  to  herself  before  long.  Do  you  mind  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  John  cheerfully,  mounting 
at  the  back  of  the  dog-cart. 

"And — Reynolds — bring  Mr.  Short  back  to  the 
Hall  immediately,  please,  and  you  shall  have  some 
beer." 

"  All  right,  sir." 

John  supported  the  fainting  lady  with  one  arm, 
turning  round  upon  his  seat  at  the  back.  Old  Straw 
berry  wheeled  quickly  in  her  tracks  and  trotted  down 
the  avenue  under  the  evident  impression  that  she  was 


304  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

going  home.     Mr.  Juxon  dashed  across  the  ditch  again 
to  the  place  where  Walter  Goddard  had  fallen. 

The  squire  knelt  down  and  tried  to  ascertain  the 
extent  of  the  man's  injuries ;  as  far  as  he  could  see 
there  was  a  bad  wound  at  his  throat,  and  one  hand 
was  much  mangled.  But  there  seemed  to  have  been 
no  great  flow  of  blood.  He  tore  open  the  smock-frock 
and  shirt  and  put  his  ear  to  the  heart.  Faintly,  very 
faintly,  he  could  hear  it  beat.  Walter  Goddard  was 
alive  still — alive  to  live  for  years  perhaps,  the  squire 
reflected ;  to  live  in  a  prison,  it  was  true,  but  to  live. 
To  describe  his  feelings  in  that  moment  would  be 
impossible.  Had  he  found  the  convict  dead,  it  would 
be  useless  to  deny  that  he  would  have  felt  a  very 
great  satisfaction,  tempered  perhaps  by  some  pity  for 
the  wretched  man's  miserable  end,  but  still  very  great. 
It  would  have  seemed  such  a  just  end,  after  all ;  to  be 
killed  in  the  attempt  to  kill,  and  to  have  died  not  by 
the  squire's  hand  but  by  the  sharp  strong  jaws  of  the 
hound  who  had  once  before  saved  the  squire's  life. 
But  he  was  alive.  It  would  not  take  much  to  kill 
him ;  a  little  pressure  on  his  wounded  throat  would  be 
enough.  Even  to  leave  him  there,  uncared  for,  till 
morning  in  the  bleak  wind,  lying  upon  the  cold  ground, 
would  be  almost  certain  to  put  an  end  to  his  life. 
But  to  the  honour  of  Charles  James  Juxon  be  it  said 
that  such  thoughts  never  crossed  his  mind.  He  pulled 
off  his  heavy  ulster  greatcoat,  wrapped  it  about  the 
felon's  insensible  body,  then,  kneeling,  raised  up  his 
head  and  shoulders,  got  his  strong  arms  well  round 
him  and  with  some  difficulty  rose  to  his  feet.  Once 
upright,  it  was  no  hard  matter  to  carry  his  burthen 
through  the  trees  to  the  road,  and  up  the  avenue  to 
his  own  door. 


xix.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         305 

"  Holmes,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  to  his  butler,  "  this  man 
is  badly  hurt,  but  he  is  alive.  Help  me  to  carry  him 
upstairs." 

There  was  that  in  the  squire's  voice  which  brooked 
neither  question  nor  delay  when  he  was  in  earnest. 
The  solemn  butler  took  Walter  Goddard  by  the  feet 
and  the  squire  took  him  by  the  shoulders ;  so  they 
carried  him  up  to  a  bedroom  and  laid  him  down,  feel 
ing  for  the  bed  in  the  dark  as  they  moved.  Holmes 
then  lit  a  candle  with  great  calmness. 

"  Shall  I  send  for  the  medical  man,  sir  ? "  he  asked 
quietly. 

"  Yes.  Send  the  gig  as  fast  as  possible.  If  he  is 
not  at  home,  or  cannot  be  found,  send  on  to  the  town. 
If  anybody  asks  questions  say  the  man  is  a  tramp  who 
attacked  me  in  the  park  and  Stamboul  pulled  him 
down.  Send  at  once,  and  bring  me  some  brandy  and 
light  the  fire  here." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Holmes,  and  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Juxon  lighted  other  candles  and  examined  the 
injured  man.  There  was  now  no  doubt  that  he  was 
alive.  He  breathed  faintly  but  regularly ;  his  pulse 
beat  less  rapidly  and  more  firmly.  His  face  was 
deadly  pale  and  very  thin,  and  his  half-opened  eyes 
stared  unconsciously  upwards,  but  they  were  not 
glazed  nor  death-like.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  little 
blood,  comparatively  speaking. 

"  Bah  ! "  ejaculated  the  squire.  "  I  believe  he  is 
only  badly  frightened,  after  all." 

Holmes  brought  brandy  and  warm  water  and  again 
left  the  room.  Mr.  Juxon  bathed  Goddard's  face  and 
neck  with  a  sponge,  eying  him  suspiciously  all  the 
while.  It  would  not  have  surprised  him  at  any 
moment  if  he  had  leaped  from  the  bed  and  attempted 

x 


306         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.        CHAP. 

to  escape.  To  guard  against  surprise,  the  squire  locked 
the  door  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  watching  the 
convict  to  see  whether  he  noticed  the  act  or  was  really 
unconscious.  But  Goddard  never  moved  nor  turned 
his  motionless  eyeballs.  Mr.  Juxon  returned  to  his 
side,  and  with  infinite  care  began  to  remove  his  clothes. 
They  were  almost  in  rags.  He  examined  each  article, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  money  in  the  pockets, 
amounting  to  nearly  sixty  pounds ;  then  he  smiled  to 
himself,  remembering  that  the  convict  had  visited  his 
wife  and  had  doubtless  got  the  money  from  her  to  aid 
him  in  his  escape.  He  put  the  notes  and  gold  care 
fully  together  in  a  drawer  after  counting  them,  and 
returning  to  his  occupation  succeeded  at  last  in  putting 
Goddard  to  bed,  after  staunching  his  wounds  as  well 
as  he  could  with  handkerchiefs. 

He  stood  long  by  the  bedside,  watching  the  man's 
regular  breathing,  and  examining  his  face  attentively. 
Many  strange  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind,  as  he 
stood  there,  looking  at  the  man  who  had  caused  such 
misery  to  himself,  such  shame  and  sorrow  to  his  fair 
wife,  such  disappointment  to  the  honest  man  who  was 
now  trying  to  save  him  from  the  very  grasp  of  death. 
So  this  was  Mary  Goddard's  husband,  little  Nellie's 
father — this  grimy  wretch,  whose  foul  rags  lay  heaped 
there  in  the  corner,  whose  miserable  head  pressed  the 
spotless  linen  of  the  pillow,  whose  half-closed  eyes  stared 
up  so  senselessly  at  the  squire's  face.  This  was  the  man 
for  whose  sake  Mary  Goddard  started  and  turned  pale, 
fainted  and  grew  sick,  languished  and  suffered  so  much 
pain.  No  wonder  she  concealed  it  from  Nellie — no 
wonder  she  had  feared  lest  after  many  years  he  should 
come  back  and  claim  her  for  his  wife — no  wonder  either 
that  a  man  with  such  a  face  should  do  bad  deeds. 


xix.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         307 

Mr.  Juxon  was  a  judge  of  faces;  persons  accus 
tomed  for  many  years  to  command  men  usually  are. 
He  noted  "Walter  Goddard's  narrow  jaw  and  pointed 
chin,  his  eyes  set  near  together,  his  wicked  lips,  parted 
and  revealing  sharp  jagged  teeth,  his  ill-shaped  ears 
and  shallow  temples,  his  flat  low  forehead,  shown  off 
by  his  cropped  hair.  And  yet  this  man  had  once  been 
called  handsome,  he  had  been  admired  and  courted. 
But  then  his  hair  had  hidden  the  shape  of  his  head, 
his  long  golden  moustache  had  covered  his  mouth  and 
disguised  all  his  lower  features,  he  had  been  arrayed  by 
tailors  of  artistic  merit,  and  he  had  had  much  gold  in 
his  pockets.  He  was  a  very  different  object  now — 
the  escaped  convict,  close  cropped,  with  a  half-grown 
beard  upon  his  ill-shaped  face,  and  for  all  ornament  a 
linen  sheet  drawn  up  under  his  chin. 

The  squire  was  surprised  that  he  did  not  recover 
consciousness,  seeing  that  he  breathed  regularly  and 
was  no  longer  so  pale  as  at  first.  A  faint  flush  seemed 
to  rise  to  his  sunken  cheeks,  and  for  a  long  time  Mr. 
Juxon  stood  beside  him,  expecting  every  moment  that 
he  would  speak.  Once  he  thought  his  lips  moved  a 
little.  Then  Mr.  Juxon  took  a  little  brandy  in  a  spoon 
and  raising  his  head  poured  it  down  his  throat.  The 
effect  was  immediate.  Goddard  opened  wide  his  eyes, 
the  blood  mounted  to  his  cheeks  with  a  deep  flush, 
and  he  uttered  an  inarticulate  sound. 

"  What  did  you  say  ? "  asked  the  squire,  bending 
over  him. 

But  there  was  no  answer.  The  sick  man's  head  fell 
back  upon  the  pillow,  though  his  eyes  remained  wide 
open  and  the  flush  did  not  leave  his  cheeks.  His 
pulse  was  now  very  high,  and  his  breathing  grew  heavy 
and  stertorous. 


308         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP, 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  made  him  any  worse,"  remarked 
Mr.  Juxon  aloud,  as  he  contemplated  his  patient. 
"  But  if  he  is  going  to  die,  I  wish  he  would  die 
now." 

The  thought  was  charitable,  on  the  whole.  If 
Walter  Goddard  died  then  and  there,  he  would  be 
buried  in  a  nameless  grave  under  the  shadow  of  the 
old  church ;  no  one  would  ever  know  that  he  was  the 
celebrated  forger,  the  escaped  convict,  the  husband  of 
Mary  Goddard.  If  he  lived — heaven  alone  knew  what 
complications  would  follow  if  he  lived. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Mr.  Juxon  with 
drew  the  key  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it.  Holmes 
the  butler  stood  outside. 

"  Mr.  Short  has  come  back,  sir.  He  asked  if  you 
wished  to  see  him." 

"Ask  him  to  come  here,"  replied  the  squire,  to 
whom  the  tension  of  keeping  his  solitary  watch  was 
becoming  very  irksome.  In  a  few  moments  John 
entered  the  room,  looking  pale  and  nervous. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         309 


CHAPTEE    XX. 

JOHN  SHORT  was  in  absolute  ignorance  of  what  was 
occurring.  He  attributed  Mrs.  Goddard's  anxiety  to 
her  solicitude  for  Mr.  Juxon,  and  if  he  had  found  time 
to  give  the  matter  serious  consideration,  he  would  have 
argued  very  naturally  that  she  was  fond  of  the  squire. 
It  had  been  less  easy  than  the  latter  had  supposed  to 
take  her  home  and  persuade  her  to  stay  there,  for  she 
was  in  a  state  in  which  she  hardly  understood  reason. 
Nothing  but  John's  repeated  assurances  to  the  effect 
that  Mr.  Juxon  was  not  in  the  least  hurt,  and  that  he 
would  send  her  word  of  the  condition  of  the  wounded 
tramp,  prevailed  upon  her  to  remain  at  the  cottage  ; 
for  she  had  come  back  to  consciousness  before  the  dog 
cart  was  fairly  out  of  the  park  and  had  almost  refused 
to  enter  her  own  home. 

The  catastrophe  had  happened,  after  eight  and  forty 
hours  of  suspense,  and  her  position  was  one  of  extreme 
fear  and  doubt.  She  had  indeed  seen  the  squire  at  the 
very  moment  when  she  fainted,  but  the  impression  was 
uncertain  as  that  of  a  dream,  and  it  required  all  John's 
asseverations  to  persuade  her  that  Mr.  Juxon  had 
actually  met  her  and  insisted  that  she  should  return 
to  the  cottage.  Once  there,  in  her  own  house,  she 
abandoned  herself  to  the  wildest  excitement,  shutting 
herself  into  the  drawing-room  and  refusing  to  see  any- 


310  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

one ;  she  gave  way  to  all  her  sorrow  and  fear,  feeling 
that  if  she  controlled  herself  any  longer  she  must  go 
mad.  Indeed  it  was  the  best  thing  she  could  do,  for 
her  nerves  were  overstrained,  and  the  hysterical  weep 
ing  which  now  completely  overpowered  her  for  some 
time,  was  the  natural  relief  to  her  overwrought  system. 
She  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  the  tramp  of 
whom  John  had  spoken,  and  whom  he  had  described 
as  badly  hurt,  was  her  husband;  and  together  with 
her  joy  at  Mr.  Juxon's  escape,  she  felt  an  intolerable 
anxiety  to  know  Walter's  fate.  If  in  ordinary  circum 
stances  she  had  been  informed  that  he  had  died  in 
prison,  it  would  have  been  absurd  to  expect  her  to  give 
way  to  any  expressions  of  excessive  grief;  she  would 
perhaps  have  shed  a  few  womanly  tears  and  for  some 
time  she  would  have  been  more  sad  than  usual;  but 
she  no  longer  loved  him  and  his  death  could  only  be 
regarded  as  a  release  from  all  manner  of  trouble  and 
shame  and  evil  foreboding.  With  his  decease  would 
have  ended  her  fears  for  poor  Nellie,  her  apprehensions 
for  the  future  in  case  he  should  return  and  claim  her, 
the  whole  weight  of  her  humiliation,  and  if  she  was 
too  kind  to  have  rejoiced  over  such  a  termination  of 
her  woes,  she  was  yet  too  sensible  not  to  have  fully 
understood  and  appreciated  the  fact  of  her  liberation 
and  of  the  freedom  given  to  the  child  she  loved,  by  the 
death  of  a  father  whose  return  could  bring  nothing 
but  disgrace.  But  now  she  did  not  know  whether 
Walter  were  alive  or  dead.  If  he  was  alive  he  was 
probably  so  much  injured  as  to  preclude  all  possibility 
of  his  escaping,  and  he  must  inevitably  be  given  up  to 
justice,  no  longer  to  imprisonment  merely,  but  by  his 
own  confession  to  suffer  the  death  of  a  murderer.  If 
on  the  other  hand  he  was  already  dead,  he  had  died  a 


XX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         311 

death  less  shameful  indeed,  but  of  which  the  circum 
stances  were  too  horrible  for  his  wife  to  contemplate, 
for  he  must  have  been  torn  to  pieces  by  Stamboul  the 
bloodhound. 

She  unconsciously  comprehended  all  these  consider 
ations,  which  entirely  deprived  her  of  the  power  to 
weigh  them  in  her  mind,  for  her  mind  was  temporarily 
loosed  from  all  control  of  the  reasoning  faculty.  She 
had  borne  much  during  the  last  three  days,  but  she 
could  bear  no  more ;  intellect  and  sensibility  were  alike 
exhausted  and  gave  way  together.  There  were  indeed 
moments,  intervals  in  the  fits  of  hysteric  tears  and 
acute  mental  torture,  when  she  lay  quite  still  in  her 
chair  and  vaguely  asked  herself  what  it  all  meant,  but 
her  disturbed  consciousness  gave  no  answer  to  the 
question,  and  presently  her  tears  broke  out  afresh  and 
she  tossed  wildly  from  side  to  side,  or  walked  hurriedly 
up  and  down  the  room,  wringing  her  hands  in  despair, 
sobbing  aloud  in  her  agony  and  again  abandoning  her 
self  to  the  uncontrolled  exaggerations  of  her  grief  and 
terror.  One  consolation  alone  presented  itself  at  inter 
vals  to  her  confused  intelligence  ;  Mr.  Juxon  was  safe. 
Whatever  other  fearful  thing  had  happened,  he  was 
safe,  saved  perhaps  by  her  warning — but  what  was 
that,  if  Walter  had  escaped  death  only  to  die  at  the 
hands  of  the  hangman,  or  had  found  it  in  the  jaws  of 
that  fearful  bloodhound  ?  What  was  the  safety  even 
of  her  best  friend,  if  poor  Nellie  was  to  know  that  her 
father  was  alive,  only  to  learn  that  he  was  to  die 
again  ? 

But  human  suffering  cannot  outlast  human 
strength;  as  a  marvellous  adjustment  of  forces  has 
ordered  that  even  at  the  pole,  in  the  regions  of  bound 
less  and  perpetual  cold,  the  sea  shall  not  freeze  to  the 


312  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

bottom,  so  there  is  also  in  human  nature  a  point 
beyond  which  suffering  cannot  extend.  The  wildest 
emotions  must  expend  themselves  in  time,  the  fiercest 
passions  must  burn  out.  At  the  end  of  two  hours 
Mary  Goddard  was  exhausted  by  the  vehemence  of  her 
hysteric  fear,  and  woke  as  from  a  dream  to  a  dull  sense 
of  reality.  She  knew,  now  that  some  power  of  reflec 
tion  was  restored  to  her,  that  the  squire  would  give 
her  intelligence  of  what  had  happened,  so  soon  as  he 
was  able,  and  she  knew  also  that  she  must  wait  until 
the  morning  before  any  such  message  could  reach  her. 
She  took  the  candle  from  the  table  and  went  upstairs. 
Nellie  was  asleep,  but  her  mother  felt  a  longing  to  look 
at  her  again  that  night,  not  knowing  what  misery  for 
her  child  the  morrow  might  bring  forth. 

Nellie  lay  asleep  in  her  bed,  her  rich  brown  hair 
plaited  together  and  thrown  back  across  the  pillow. 
The  long  dark  fringes  of  her  eyelashes  cast  a  shade 
upon  the  transparent  colour  of  her  cheek,  and  the  light 
breath  came  softly  through  her  parted  lips.  But  as 
Mary  Goddard  looked  she  saw  that  there  were  still 
tears  upon  her  lovely  face  and  that  the  pillow  was 
still  wet.  She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep,  for  Martha 
had  told  her  that  her  mother  was  very  ill  and  would 
not  see  her  that  night ;  Nellie  was  accustomed  to  say 
her  prayers  at  her  mother's  knee  every  evening  before 
going  to  bed,  she  was  used  to  having  her  mother 
smooth  her  pillow  and  kiss  her  and  put  out  her  light, 
leaving  her  with  .sweet  words,  to  wake  her  with  sweet 
words  on  the  next  morning,  and  to-night  she  had 
missed  all  this  and  had  been  told  moreover  that  her 
mother  was  very  ill  and  was  acting  very  strangely. 
She  had  gone  to  bed  and  had  cried  herself  to  sleep, 
and  the  tears  were  still  upon  her  cheeks.  Shading 


XX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         313 

the  light  carefully  from  the  child's  eyes,  Mary  Goddard 
bent  down  and  kissed  her  forehead  once  and  then 
feeling  that  her  sorrow  was  rising  again  she  turned 
and  passed  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

But  Nellie  was  dreaming  peacefully  and  knew 
nothing  of  her  mother's  visit ;  she  slept  on  not  know 
ing  that  scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  her  own 
father,  whom  she  had  been  taught  to  think  of  as  dead, 
was  lying  at  the  Hall,  wounded  and  unconscious  while 
half  the  detectives  in  the  kingdom  were  looking  for 
him.  Had  Nellie  known  that,  her  sleep  would  have 
been  little  and  her  dreams  few. 

There  was  little  rest  at  the  Hall  that  night.  When 
Eeynolds  had  driven  John  back  to  the  great  house  he 
found  his  way  to  the  kitchen  and  got  his  beer,  and  he 
became  at  once  a  centre  of  interest,  being  overwhelmed 
with  questions  concerning  the  events  of  the  evening. 
But  he  was  able  to  say  very  little  except  that  while 
waiting  before  the  cottage  he  had  heard  strange  noises 
from  the  park,  that  Master  John  had  run  up  the 
avenue,  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  taken  Miss  Nellie  into 
the  house  and  had  then  insisted  upon  being  driven  to 
wards  the  Hall,  that  they  had  met  Master  John  and 
the  squire  and  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  been  "took  wuss." 

Meanwhile  John  entered  the  room  where  Mr.  Juxon 
was  watching  over  Walter  Goddard.  John  looked  pale 
and  nervous ;  he  had  not  recovered  from  the  unpleasant 
sensation  of  being  left  alone  with  what  he  believed  to 
be  a  dead  body,  in  the  struggling  moonlight  and  the 
howling  wind.  He  was  by  no  means  timid  by  nature, 
but  young  nerves  are  not  so  tough  as  old  ones  and  he  had 
felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  He  stood  a  moment 
within  the  room,  then  glanced  at  the  bed  and  started 
with  surprise. 


314  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  Why — he  is  not  dead  after  all ! "  he  exclaimed, 
and  going  nearer  he  looked  hard  at  Goddard's  flushed 
face. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "he  is  not  dead.  He  may 
be  dying  for  all  I  know.  I  have  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  Was  he  much  hurt  ? "  asked  John,  still  looking  at 
the  sick  man.  "  He  looks  to  me  as  though  he  were  in 
a  fever." 

"  He  does  not  seem  so  badly  hurt.  I  cannot  make 
it  out  at  all.  At  first  I  thought  he  was  badly  fright 
ened,  but  I  cannot  bring  him  to  consciousness.  Perhaps 
he  has  a  fever,  as  you  say.  This  is  a  most  unpleasant 
experience,  Mr.  Short — your  first  night  at  the  Hall, 
too.  Of  course  I  am  bound  to  look  after  the  man,  as 
Stamboul  did  the  damage — it  would  have  served  him 
right  if  he  had  been  killed.  It  was  a  villainous  blow 
he  gave  me — I  can  feel  it  still.  The  moral  of  it  is 
that  one  should  always  wear  a  thick  ulster  when  one 
walks  alone  at  night." 

"  I  did  not  know  he  struck  you,"  said  John  in  some 
surprise. 

"  Jumped  out  of  the  copse  at  the  turning  and  struck 
at  me  with  a  bludgeon,"  said  Mr.  Juxon.  "  Knocked 
my  hat  off,  into  the  bargain,  and  then  ran  away  with 
Stamboul  after  him.  If  I  had  not  come  up  in  time 
there  would  have  been  nothing  left  of  him." 

"  I  should  say  the  dog  saved  your  life,"  remarked 
John,  much  impressed  by  the  squire's  unadorned  tale. 
"  What  object  can  the  fellow  have  had  in  attacking 
you?  Strange — his  eyes  are  open,  but  he  does  not 
seem  to  understand  us." 

Mr.  Juxon  walked  to  the  bedside  and  contemplated 
the  sick  man's  features  with  undisguised  disgust. 

"  You  villain  ! "  he  said  roughly.     "  Why  don't  you 


xx.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         315 

answer  for  yourself  ? "  The  man  did  not  move,  and 
the  squire  began  to  pace  the  room.  John  was  struck 
by  Mr.  Juxon's  tone :  it  was  not  like  him,  he  thought, 
to  speak  in  that  way  to  a  helpless  creature.  He  could 
not  understand  it.  There  was  a  long  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  heavy  breathing  of  Goddard. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Short,"  said  the  squire  at  last,  "  I  have 
no  intention  of  keeping  you  up  all  night.  The  village 
doctor  must  have  been  out.  It  may  be  more  than  an 
hour  before  my  man  finds  another." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  John  quietly.  "  I  will  wait 
till  he  comes  at  all  events.  You  may  need  me  before 
it  is  over." 

",Do  you  think  he  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to 
die  ? "  asked  the  squire  doubtfully,  as  he  again  ap 
proached  the  bedside. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  John,  standing  on  the 
other  side.  "  I  never  saw  any  one  die.  He  looks 
very  ill." 

"Very  ill.  I  have  seen  many  people  die — but 
somehow  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  this  fellow 
will  live." 

"  Let  us  hope  so,"  said  John. 

"  Well — "  The  squire  checked  himself.  Probably 
the  hope  he  would  have  expressed  would  not  have 
coincided  with  that  to  which  John  had  given  utter 
ance.  "  Well,"  he  repeated,  "  I  daresay  he  will  Mr. 
Short,  are  you  at  all  nervous  ?  Since  you  are  so  good 
as  to  say  you  will  wait  until  the  doctor  comes,  would 
you  mind  very  much  being  left  alone  here  for  five 
minutes  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  John,  stoutly,  "  not  in  the  least." 
To  be  left  in  a  well-lighted  room  by  the  bedside  of 
Walter  Goddard,  ill  indeed,  but  alive  and  breathing 


316  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

vigorously,  was  very  different  from  being  requested  to 
watch  his  apparently  dead  body  out  in  the  park  under 
the  moonlight. 

With  a  word  of  thanks,  the  squire  left  the  room, 
and  hastened  to  his  study,  where  he  proceeded  to 
write  a  note,  as  follows  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  AMBROSE — The  man  we  were  speaking 
of  yesterday  morning  actually  attacked  me  this  evening. 
Stamboul  worried  him  badly,  but  he  is  not  dead.  He 
is  lying  here,  well  cared  for,  and  I  have  sent  for  the 
doctor.  If  convenient  to  you,  would  you  come  in  the 
morning  ?  I  need  not  recommend  discretion. — Sincerely 
yours,  C.  J.  JUXON." 

«  N.B. — I  am  not  hurt." 

Having  ascertained  that  Eeynolds  was  still  in  the 
kitchen,  the  missive  was  given  to  the  old  man  with  an 
injunction  to  use  all  speed,  as  the  vicar  might  be  going 
to  bed  and  the  note  was  important. 

John,  meanwhile,  being  left  alone  sat  down  near  the 
wounded  man's  bed  and  waited,  glancing  at  the  flushed 
face  and  staring  eyes  from  time  to  time,  and  wonder 
ing  whether  the  fellow  would  recover.  The  young 
scholar  had  been  startled  by  all  that  had  occurred,  and 
his  ideas  wandered  back  to  the  beginning  of  the  even 
ing,  scarcely  realising  that  a  few  hours  ago  he  had  not 
met  Mrs.  Goddard,  had  not  experienced  a  surprising 
change  in  his  feelings  towards  her,  had  not  witnessed 
the  strange  scene  under  the  trees.  It  seemed  as  though 
all  these  things  had  occupied  a  week  at  the  very  least, 
whereas  on  that  same  afternoon  he  had  been  speculat 
ing  upon  his  meeting  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  calling  up  her 
features  to  his  mind  as  he  had  last  seen  them,  framing 


xx.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         317 

speeches  which  when  the  meeting  came  he  had  not 
delivered,  letting  his  mind  run  riot  in  the  delicious 
anticipation  of  appearing  before  her  in  the  light  of  a 
successful  competitor  for  one  of  the  greatest  honours  of 
English  scholarship.  And  yet  in  a  few  hours  all  his 
feelings  were  changed,  and  to  his  infinite  surprise,  were 
changed  without  any  suffering  to  himself;  he  knew 
well  that,  for  some  reason,  Mrs.  Goddard  had  lost  the 
mysterious  power  of  making  him  blush,  and  of  sending 
strange  thrills  through  his  whole  nature  when  he  sat 
at  her  side ;  with  some  justice  he  attributed  his  new 
indifference  to  the  extraordinary  alteration  in  her  ap 
pearance,  whereby  she  seemed  now  so  much  older  than 
himself,  and  he  forthwith  moralised  upon  the  mutability 
of  human  affairs,  with  all  the  mental  fluency  of  a  very 
young  man  whose  affairs  are  still  extremely  mutable. 
He  fell  to  musing  on  the  accident  in  the  park,  wonder 
ing  how  he  would  have  acted  in  Mr.  Juxon's  place, 
wondering  especially  what  object  could  have  led  the 
wretched  tramp  to  attack  the  squire,  wondering  too  at 
the  very  great  anxiety  shown  by  Mrs.  Goddard. 

As  he  sat  by  the  bedside,  the  sick  man  suddenly 
moved  and  turning  his  eyes  full  upon  John's  face  stared 
at  him  with  a  look  of  dazed  surprise.  He  thrust  out 
his  wounded  hand,  bound  up  in  a  white  handkerchief 
through  which  a  little  blood  was  slowly  oozing,  and  to 
John's  infinite  surprise  he  spoke. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  he  asked  in  a  strange,  mumbling 
voice,  as  though  he  had  pebbles  in  his  mouth. 

John  started  forward  in  his  chair  and  looked  intently 
at  Goddard's  face. 

"My  name  is  Short,"  he  answered  mechanically. 
But  the  passing  flash  of  intelligence  was  already 
gone,  and  Goddard's  look  became  a  glassy  and  idiotic 


318  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

stare.  Still  his  lips  moved.  John  came  nearer  and 
listened. 

"  Mary  Goddard  !  Mary  Goddard  !  Let  me  in  ! " 
said  the  sick  man  quite  intelligibly,  in  spite  of  his 
uncertain  tone.  John  uttered  an  exclamation  of  as 
tonishment;  his  heart  beat  fast  and  he  listened  intently. 
The  sick  man  mumbled  inarticulate  sounds ;  not  an 
other  word  could  be  distinguished.  John  looked  for 
the  bell,  thinking  that  Mr.  Juxon  should  be  informed 
of  the  strange  phenomenon  at  once;  but  before  he 
could  ring  the  squire  himself  entered  the  room,  having 
finished  and  despatched  his  note  to  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  John.  "  He  spoke 
just  now— " 

"  What  did  he  say  ? "  asked  Mr.  Juxon  very 
quickly. 

"  He  said  first,  '  Who  are  you  ? '  and  then  he  said 
'  Mary  Goddard,  let  me  in  ! '  Is  it  not  most  extra 
ordinary  ?  How  in  the  world  should  he  know  about 
Mrs.  Goddard?" 

The  squire  turned  a  little  pale  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  He  had  left  John  with  the  wounded  man 
feeling  sure  that,  for  some  time  at  least,  the  latter 
would  not  be  likely  to  say  anything  intelligible. 

"  Most  extraordinary ! "  he  repeated  presently. 
Then  he  looked  at  Goddard  closely,  and  turned 
him  again  upon  his  back  and  put  his  injured  hand 
beneath  the  sheet. 

"  Do  you  understand  me  ?  Do  you  know  who  I 
am  ? "  he  asked  in  a  loud  tone  close  to  his  ear. 

But  the  unfortunate  man  gave  no  sign  of  intelli 
gence,  only  his  inarticulate  mumbling  grew  louder 
though  not  more  distinct.  Mr.  Juxon  turned  away 
impatiently. 


XX. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         319 


"  The  fellow  is  in  a  delirium,"  he  said.  "  I  wish 
the  doctor  would  come."  He  had  hardly  turned  his 
back  when  the  man  spoke  again. 

"  Mary  Goddard  ! "  he  cried.     "  Let  me  in  ! " 
"  There  !  "  said  John.     "  The  same  words  ! " 
Mr.  Juxon  shuddered,  and  looked  curiously  at  his 
companion;  then  thrust  his  hands  into   his  pockets 
and  whistling  softly  walked  about  the  room.     John 
was  shocked  at  what  seemed  in  the  squire  a  sort  of 
indecent    levity;   he   could    not    understand   that  his 
friend  felt  as  though  he  should  go  mad. 

Indeed  the  squire  suffered  intensely.  The  name 
of  Mary  Goddard,  pronounced  by  the  convict  in  his 
delirium  brought  home  more  vividly  than  anything 
could  have  done  the  relation  between  the  wounded 
tramp  and  the  woman  the  squire  loved.  It  was 
positively  true,  then — there  was  not  a  shadow  of  doubt 
left,  since  this  wretch  lay  there  mumbling  her  name 
in  his  ravings  !  This  was  the  husband  of  that  gentle 
creature  with  sad  pathetic  eyes,  so  delicate,  so  refined 
that  it  seemed  as  though  the  coarser  breath  of  the 
world  of  sin  and  shame  could  never  come  near  her 
— this  was  her  husband  !  It  was  horrible.  This  was 
the  father  of  lovely  Nellie,  too.  Was  anything  want 
ing  to  make  the  contrast  more  hideous  ? 

Mr.  Juxon  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  foresee 
what  Walter  Goddard  might  say  in  the  course  of  an 
other  hour.  He  had  often  seen  people  in  a  delirium 
and  knew  how  strangely  that  inarticulate  murmuring 
sometimes  breaks  off  into  sudden  incisive  speech,  as 
tonishing  every  one  who  hears.  The  man  had  already 
betrayed  that  he  knew  Mary  Goddard ;  at  the  next 
interval  in  his  ravings  he  might  betray  that  she  was 
his  wife.  John  was  still  standing  by  the  bedside,  not 


320  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

having  recovered  from  his  astonishment;  if  John 
heard  any  more,  he  would  be  in  possession  of  Mrs. 
Goddard's  secret.  The  squire  was  an  energetic  man, 
equal  to  most  emergencies ;  he  suddenly  made  up  his 
mind. 

"Mr.  Short,"  he  said,  "I  will  tell  you  something. 
You  will  see  the  propriety  of  being  very  discreet,  in 
fact  it  is  only  to  ensure  your  discretion  that  I  wish  to 
tell  you  this  much.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that 
this  fellow  is  a  convict  —  do  not  be  surprised — 
escaped  from  prison.  He  is  a  man  who  once — was  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  which  accounts  for  his  having 
found  his  way  to  Billingsfield.  Yes — I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say — Mrs.  Goddard  is  aware  of  his 
presence,  and  that  accounts  for  her  excitement  and  her 
fainting.  Do  you  understand  ? " 

"  But — good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  John  in  amaze 
ment.  "Why  did  she  not  give  information,  if  she 
knew  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood  ? " 

"  That  would  be  more  than  could  be  expected  of 
any  woman,  Mr.  Short.  You  forget  that  the  man  once 
loved  her." 

"And  how  did  you — well,  no.  I  won't  ask  any 
questions." 

"No,"  said  the  squire,  "please  don't.  You  would 
be  placing  me  in  a  disagreeable  position.  Not  that 
I  do  not  trust  you  implicitly,  Mr.  Short,"  he  added 
frankly,  "  but  I  should  be  betraying  a  confidence.  If 
this  fellow  dies  here,  he  will  be  buried  as  an  unknown 
tramp.  I  found  no  trace  of  a  name  upon  his  clothes. 
If  he  recovers,  we  will  decide  what  course  to  pursue. 
We  will  do  our  best  for  him — it  is  a  delicate  case  of 
conscience.  Possibly  the  poor  fellow  would  very  much 
prefer  being  allowed  to  die ;  but  we  cannot  let  him. 


XX.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         321 

Humanity,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  forbids 
euthanasia  and  the  use  of  the  hemlock  in  such, 
cases." 

"  Was  he  sentenced  for  a  long  time  ? "  asked  John, 
very  much  impressed  by  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 

"Twelve  years  originally,  I  believe.  Aggravated 
by  his  escape  and  by  his  assault  on  me,  his  term 
might  very  likely  be  extended  to  twenty  years  if  he 
were  taken  again." 

"  That  is  to  say,  if  he  recovers  ? "  inquired  John. 

"Precisely.  I  do  not  think  I  would  hesitate  to 
send  him  back  to  prison  if  he  recovered." 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  think  he  would  rather  die 
here,  if  he  were  consulted,"  said  John.  "  It  would 
not  be  murder  to  let  him  die  peacefully " 

"  In  the  opinion  of  the  law  it  might  be  called  man 
slaughter,  though  I  do  not  suppose  anything  would 
be  said  if  I  had  simply  placed  him  here  and  omitted 
to  call  in  a  physician.  He  cannot  live  very  long  in 
this  state,  unless  something  is  done  for  him  immedi 
ately.  Look  at  him." 

There  was  no  apparent  change  in  Goddard's  con 
dition.  He  lay  upon  his  back  staring  straight  up 
ward  and  mumbling  aloud  with  every  breath  he 
drew. 

"  He  must  have  been  ill,  before  he  attacked  me," 
continued  Mr.  Juxon,  very  much  as  though  he  were 
talking  to  himself.  "  He  evidently  is  in  a  raging  fever 
— brain  fever  I  should  think.  That  is  probably  the 
reason  why  he  missed  his  aim — that  and  the  darkness. 
If  he  had  been  well  he  would  have  killed  me  fast 
enough  with  that  bludgeon.  As  you  say,  Mr.  Short, 
there  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  would  prefer  to 
die  here,  if  he  had  his  choice.  In  my  opinion,  too,  it 

Y 


322  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

would  be  far  more  merciful  to  him  and  to — to  him  in 
fact.  Nevertheless,  neither  you  nor  I  would  like  to 
remember  that  we  had  let  him  die  without  doing  all 
we  could  to  keep  him  alive.  It  is  a  very  singular 
case." 

"  Most  singular,"  echoed  John. 

"  Besides — there  is  another  thing.  Suppose  that  he 
had  attacked  me  as  he  did,  but  that  I  had  killed  him 
with  my  stick — or  that  Stamboul  had  made  an  end 
of  him  then  and  there.  The  law  would  have  said  it 
served  him  right — would  it  not  ?  Of  course.  But  if 
I  had  not  quite  killed  him,  or,  as  has  actually  hap 
pened,  he  survived  the  embraces  of  my  dog,  the  law 
insists  that  I  ought  to  do  everything  in  my  power  to 
save  the  remnant  of  his  life.  What  for  ?  In  order 
that  the  law  may  give  itself  the  satisfaction  of  dealing 
with  him  according  to  its  lights.  I  think  the  law  is 
very  greedy,  I  object  to  it,  I  think  it  is  ridiculous  from 
that  point  of  view,  but  then,  when  I  come  to  examine 
the  thing  I  find  that  my  own  conscience  tells  me  to 
save  him,  although  I  think  it  best  that  he  should  die. 
Therefore  the  law  is  not  ridiculous.  Pleasant  dilemma 
— the  impossible  case  !  The  law  is  at  the  same  time 
ridiculous  and  not  ridiculous.  The  question  is,  does 
the  law  deduce  itself  from  conscience,  or  is  conscience 
the  direct  result  of  existing  law  ? " 

The  squire  appeared  to  be  in  a  strangely  moralising 
mood,  and  John  listened  to  him  with  some  surprise. 
He  could  not  understand  that  the  good  man  was  talk 
ing  to  persuade  himself,  and  to  concentrate  his  facul 
ties,  which  had  been  almost  unbalanced  by  the  events 
of  the  evening. 

"  I  think,"  said  John  with  remarkable  good  sense, 
"  that  the  instinct  of  man  is  to  preserve  life  when  he 


xx.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.          323 

is  calm.  When  a  man  is  fighting  with  another  he  is 
hot  and  tries  to  kill  his  enemy;  when  the  fight  is 
over,  the  natural  instinct  returns." 

"  The  only  thing  worth  knowing  in  such  cases  is 
the  precise  point  at  which  the  fight  may  be  said  to  be 
over.  I  once  knew  a  young  surgeon  in  India  who 
thought  he  had  killed  a  cobra  and  proceeded  to  extract 
the  fangs  in  order  to  examine  the  poison.  Unfortu 
nately  the  snake  was  not  quite  dead;  he  bit  the 
surgeon  in  the  finger  and  the  poor  fellow  died  in 
thirty-five  minutes." 

"  Dreadful  ! "  said  John.  "  But  you  do  not  think 
this  poor  fellow  could  do  anything  very  dangerous  now 
— do  you?" 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no  ! "  returned  the  squire.  "  I  was 
only  stating  a  case  to  prove  that  one  is  sometimes 
justified  in  going  quite  to  the  end  of  a  fight.  No 
indeed !  He  will  not  be  dangerous  for  some  time,  if 
he  ever  is  again.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  he  must  have 
been  ill  some  time.  Delirium  never  comes  on  in  this 
way,  so  soon " 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  Holmes, 
who  came  to  say  that  the  physician,  Doctor  Longstreet, 
had  arrived. 

"  Oh — it  is  Dr.  Longstreet  is  it  ? "  said  the  squire. 
"  Ask  him  to  come  up." 


324  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTER    XXL 

DOCTOR  LONGSTREET  was  not  the  freethinking  physician 
of  Billingsfield.  The  latter  was  out  when  Mr.  Juxon's 
groom  went  in  search  of  him,  and  the  man  had  driven 
on  to  the  town,  six  miles  away.  The  doctor  was  an 
old  man  with  a  bright  eye,  a  deeply  furrowed  fore 
head,  a  bald  head  and  clean  shaved  face.  He  walked 
as  though  his  frame  were  set  together  with  springs  and 
there  was  a  curious  snapping  quickness  in  his  speech. 
He  seemed  full  of  vitality  and  bore  his  years  with  a 
jaunty  air  of  merriment  which  inspired  confidence,  for 
he  seemed  perpetually  laughing  at  the  ills  of  the  flesh 
and  ready  to  make  other  people  laugh  at  them  too. 
But  his  bright  eyes  had  a  penetrating  look  and  though 
he  judged  quickly  he  generally  was  right  in  his  opinion. 
He  entered  the  room  briskly,  not  knowing  that  the 
sick  man  was  there. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Juxon,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  I  am  with 
you."  He  had  the  habit  of  announcing  his  presence 
in  this  fashion,  as  though  his  brisk  and  active  person 
ality  were  likely  to  be  overlooked.  A  moment  later 
he  caught  sight  of  the  bed.  "  Dear  me,"  he  added  in 
a  lower  voice,  "  I  did  not  know  our  patient  was  here." 

He  went  to  "Walter  Goddard's  side,  looked  at  him 
attentively,  felt  his  pulse,  and  his  forehead,  glanced  at 
the  bandages  the  squire  had  roughly  put  upon  his 


XXI.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  325 

throat  and  hand,  drew  up  the  sheet  again  beneath  his 
chin  and  turned  sharply  round. 

"  Brain  fever,  sir,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Brain 
fever.  You  must  get  some  ice  and  have  some  beef 
tea  made  as  soon  as  possible.  He  is  in  a  very  bad 
way — curious,  too;  he  looks  like  a  cross  between  a 
ticket  of  leave  man  and  a  gentleman.  Tramp,  you 
say  ?  That  would  not  prevent  his  being  either.  You 
cannot  disturb  him — don't  be  afraid.  He  hears  noth 
ing — is  off,  the  Lord  knows  where,  raving  delirious. 
Must  look  to  his  scratches  though — dangerous — in 
flammation.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  happened 
— how  long  he  has  been  here  ? " 

The  squire  in  a  few  words  informed  Doctor  Long- 
street  of  the  attack  made  upon  him  in  the  park.  The 
doctor  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Only  two  hours  and  a  half  since,"  he  remarked. 
"  It  is  just  midnight  now,  very  good — the  man  must 
have  been  in  a  fever  all  day — yesterday,  too,  perhaps. 
He  is  not  badly  hurt  by  the  dog — like  to  see  that 
dog,  if  you  don't  mind — the  fright  most  likely  sent 
him  into  delirium.  You  have  nothing  to  accuse 
yourself  of,  Mr.  Juxon :  it  was  certainly  not  your 
fault.  Even  if  the  dog  had  not  bitten  him,  he  would 
most  likely  have  been  in  his  present  state  by  this 
time.  Would  you  mind  sending  for  some  ice  at  once  ? 
Thank  you.  It  was  very  lucky  for  the  fellow  that  he 
attacked  you  just  when  he  did: — secured  him  the 
chance  of  being  well  taken  care  of.  If  he  had  gone 
off  like  this  in  the  park  he  would  have  been  dead 
before  morning." 

The  squire  rang  and  sent  for  the  ice  the  doctor 
demanded. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  live  ? "  he  asked  nervously. 


326  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Doctor  Longstreet,  frankly. 
"  Nobody  can  tell.  He  is  very  much  exhausted — may 
live  two  or  three  days  in  this  state  and  then  die  or  go 
to  sleep  and  get  well — may  die  in  the  morning — often 
do — cannot  say.  With  a  great  deal  of  care,  I  think 
he  has  a  chance." 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  save  him,"  said  the  squire, 
looking  hard  at  the  physician. 

"Very  good  of  you,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Doctor 
Longstreet,  cheerfully.  "  It  is  not  everybody  who 
would  take  so  much  trouble  for  a  tramp.  Of  course 
if  he  dies  people  will  say  your  dog  killed  him ;  but  I 
will  sign  a  paper  to  the  effect  that  it  is  not  true.  If 
he  had  left  you  and  your  dog  alone,  he  would  have 
been  dead  in  the  morning  to  an  absolute  certainty." 

"  How  very  extraordinary  !  "  exclaimed  the  squire, 
suddenly  realising  that  instead  of  causing  the  man's 
death  Stamboul  had  perhaps  saved  his  life. 

"It  was  certainly  very  odd  that  he  should  have 
chosen  the  best  moment  for  assaulting  you,"  continued 
the  doctor.  "  It  is  quite  possible  that  even  then  he 
was  under  some  delusion — took  you  for  somebody 
else — some  old  enemy.  People  do  queer  things  in 
a  brain  fever.  By  the  bye  has  he  said  anything  in 
telligible  since  he  has  been  here  ? " 

John  Short  who  had  been  standing  silently  by  the 
bedside  during  the  whole  interview  looked  up  quickly 
at  the  squire,  wondering  how  he  would  answer.  But 
Mr.  Juxon  did  not  hesitate. 

"  Yes.  Twice  he  repeated  a  woman's  name.  That 
is  very  natural,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think  he  will 
have  any  lucid  moments  for  some  time  ? " 

"May,"  said  the  doctor,  "may.  When  he  does 
it  is  likely  to  be  at  the  turning  point ;  he  will  either 


XXI. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         327 


die  or  be  better  very  soon  after.  If  it  comes  soon  he 
may  say  something  intelligible.  If  he  is  much  more 
exhausted  than  he  is  now,  he  will  understand  you,  but 
you  will  not  understand  him.  Meningitis  always 
brings  a  partial  paralysis  of  the  tongue,  when  the 
patient  is  exhausted.  Most  probably  he  will  go  on 
moaning  and  mumbling,  as  he  does  now,  for  another 
day.  You  will  be  able  to  tell  by  his  eye  whether  he 
understands  anything;  perhaps  he  will  make  some 
sign  with  his  head  or  hand.  Ah — here  is  the  ice." 

Doctor  Longstreet  went  about  his  operations  in  a 
rapid  and  business  like  fashion  and  John  gave  what 
assistance  he  could.  The  squire  stood  leaning  against 
the  chimney-piece  in  deep  thought. 

Indeed  he  had  enough  to  think  of,  when  he  had 
fully  weighed  the  meaning  of  the  doctor's  words.  He 
was  surprised  beyond  measure  at  the  turn  things  had 
taken;  for  although,  as  he  had  previously  told  John, 
he  suspected  that  Goddard  must  have  been  in  a  fever 
for  several  hours  before  the  assault,  it  had  not  struck 
him  that  Stamboul's  attack  had  been  absolutely  harm 
less,  still  less  that  it  might  prove  to  have  been  the 
means  of  saving  the  convict's  life.  It  was  terribly 
hard  to  say  that  he  desired  to  save  the  man,  and  yet 
the  honest  man  in  his  heart  prayed  that  he  might 
really  hope  for  that  result.  It  would  be  far  worse, 
should  Goddard  die,  to  remember  that  he  had  wished 
for  his  death.  But  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a 
more  unexpected  position  than  that  in  which  the 
squire  found  himself;  by  a  perfectly  natural  chain 
of  circumstances  he  was  now  tending  with  the  utmost 
care  the  man  who  had  tried  to  murder  him,  and  who 
of  all  men  in  the  world,  stood  most  in  the  way  of  the 
accomplishment  of  his  desires, 


328  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

He  could  not  hide  from  himself  the  fact  that  he 
hated  the  sick  man,  even  though  he  hoped,  or  tried 
to  hope  for  his  recovery.  'He  hated  him  for  the 
shame  and  suffering  he  had  brought  upon  Mary 
Goddard  in  the  first  instance,  for  the  terrible  anxiety 
he  had  caused  her  by  his  escape  and  sudden  appear 
ance  at  her  house  ;  he  hated  him  for  being  what  he 
was,  being  also  the  father  of  Nellie,  and  he  hated  him 
honestly  for  his  base  attempt  upon  himself  that  night. 
He  had  good  cause  to  hate  him,  and  perhaps  he  was 
not  ashamed  of  his  hatred.  To  be  called  upon,  how 
ever,  to  return  good  for  such  an  accumulated  mass  of 
evil  was  almost  too  much  for  his  human  nature.  It 
was  but  a  faint  satisfaction  to  think  that  if  he  re 
covered  he  was  to  be  sent  back  to  prison.  Mr.  Juxon 
did  not  know  that  there  was  blood  upon  the  man's 
hands — he  had  yet  to  learn  that ;  he  would  not  deign 
to  mention  the  assault  in  the  park  when  he  handed  him 
over  to  the  authorities ;  the  man  should  simply  go 
back  to  Portland  to  suffer  the  term  of  his  imprison 
ment,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  well  enough  to  be 
moved — if  that  time  ever  came.  If  he  died,  he 
should  be  buried  decently  in  a  nameless  grave,  "  six 
feet  by  four,  by  two,"  as  Thomas  Eeid  would  have 
said — if  he  died. 

Meanwhile,  however,  there  was  yet  another  con 
sideration  which  disturbed  the  squire's  meditations. 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  a  right  to  know  that  her  husband 
was  dying  and,  if  she  so  pleased,  she  had  a  right  to  be 
at  his  bedside.  But  at  the  same  time  it  would  be 
necessary  so  to  account  for  her  presence  as  not  to 
arouse  Doctor  Longstreet's  suspicions,  nor  the  com 
ments  of  Holmes,  the  butler,  and  of  his  brigade  in 
the  servants'  hall.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to  do  this 


xxi.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         329 

unless  Mrs.  Goddard  were  accompanied  by  the  vicar's 
wife,  the  excellent  and  maternally  minded  Mrs.  Am 
brose.  To  accomplish  this  it  would  be  necessary  to 
ask  the  latter  lady  to  spend  a  great  part  of  her  time 
at  the  Hall  in  taking  care  of  the  wretched  Goddard, 
who  would  again  be  the  gainer.  But  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  as  yet  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  had  escaped 
from  prison ;  she  must  be  told  then,  and  an  effort 
must  be  made  to  elicit  her  sympathy.  Perhaps  she 
and  the  vicar  would  come  and  stop  a  few  days, 
thought  the  squire.  Mrs.  Goddard  might  then  come 
and  go  as  she  pleased.  Her  presence  by  her  hus 
band's  bedside  would  then  be  accounted  for  on  the 
ground  of  her  charitable  disposition. 

While  Mr.  Juxon  was  revolving  these  things  in  his 
mind  he  watched  the  doctor  and  John  who  were  doing 
what  was  necessary  for  the  sick  man.  Goddard 
moaned  helplessly  with  every  breath,  in  a  loud,  monoto 
nous  tone,  very  wearing  to  the  nerves  of  those  who 
heard  it. 

"  There  is  little  to  be  done,"  said  Doctor  Longstreet 
at  last.  "  He  must  be  fed — alternately  a  little  beef 
tea  and  then  a  little  weak  brandy  and  water.  We 
must  try  and  keep  the  system  up.  That  is  his  only 
chance.  I  will  prescribe  something  and  send  it  back 
by  the  groom." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  leave  us  to-night  ?  "  exclaimed 
the  squire  in  alarm. 

"Must.  Very  sorry.  Bad  case  of  diphtheria  in 
town — probably  die  before  morning,  unless  I  get  there 
in  time — I  would  not  have  come  here  for  any  one  else. 
I  will  certainly  be  here  before  ten — he  will  live  till 
then,  I  fancy,  and  I  don't  believe  there  will  be  any 
change  in  his  condition.  Good-night,  Mr.  Juxon — 


330         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 

beef  tea  and  brandy  every  quarter  of  an  hour.  Good 
night  Mr. — "  he  turned  to  John. 

"  Short,"  said  John.     "  Good-night,  doctor." 

"  Ah — I  remember — used  to  be  with  Mr.  Ambrose 
— yes.  Delighted  to  meet  you  again,  Mr.  Short — 
good-night." 

The  doctor  vanished,  before  either  the  squire  or 
John  had  time  to  follow  him.  His  departure  left 
an  unpleasant  sense  of  renewed  responsibility  in  the 
squire's  mind. 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed,  Mr.  Short,"  he  said 
kindly.  "  I  will  sit  up  with  him." 

But  John  would  not  hear  of  any  such  arrangement ; 
he  insisted  upon  bearing  his  share  of  the  watching  and 
stoutly  refused  to  leave  the  squire  alone.  There  was 
a  large  dressing-room  attached  to  the  room  where 
Goddard  was  lying ;  the  squire  and  John  finally  agreed 
to  watch  turn  and  turn  about,  one  remaining  with 
Goddard,  while  the  other  rested  upon  the  couch  in  the 
dressing-room  aforesaid.  The  squire  insisted  upon 
taking  his  watch  first,  and  John  lay  down.  It  was 
past  midnight  and  he  was  very  tired,  but  it  seemed 
impossible  to  sleep  with  the  sound  of  that  loud, 
monotonous  mumbling  perpetually  in  his  ears.  It 
was  a  horrible  night,  and  John  Short  never  forgot 
it  so  long  as  he  lived.  Years  afterwards  he  could 
not  enter  the  room  where  Goddard  had  lain  without 
fancying  he  heard  that  perpetual  groaning  still  ring 
ing  in  his  ears.  For  many  hours  it  continued  un 
abated  and  unchanging,  never  dying  away  to  silence 
nor  developing  to  articulate  words.  From  time  to 
time  John  could  hear  the  squire's  step  as  he  moved 
about,  administering  the  nourishment  prescribed.  If 
he  had  had  the  slightest  idea  of  Mr.  Juxon's  state  of 


XXI.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.          331 

mind  he  would  hardly  have  left  him  even  to  rest 
awhile  in  the  next  room. 

Fortunately  the  squire's  nerves  were  solid.  A  firm 
constitution  hardened  by  thirty  years  of  seafaring  and 
by  the  consistent  and  temperate  regularity  which  was 
part  of  his  character,  had  so  toughened  his  natural 
strength  as  to  put  him  almost  beyond  the  reach  of 
mortal  ills ;  otherwise  he  must  have  broken  down 
under  the  mental  strain  thus  forced  upon  him.  It  is 
no  light  thing  to  do  faithfully  the  utmost  to  save 
a  man  one  has  good  reason  to  hate,  and  whose  death 
would  be  an  undoubted  blessing  to  every  one  who  has 
anything  to  do  with  him.  Walter  Goddard  was  to 
Charles  Juxon  at  once  an  enemy,  an  obstacle  and  a 
rival;  an  enemy,  for  having  attempted  his  life,  an 
obstacle,  because  while  he  lived  he  prevented  the 
squire  from  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard  and  a  rival  be 
cause  she  had  once  loved  him  and  for  the  sake  of  that 
love  was  still  willing  to  sacrifice  much  for  him.  And 
yet  the  very  fact  that  she  had  loved  him  made  it 
easier  to  be  kind  to  him  ;  it  seemed  to  the  squire  that, 
after  all,  in  taking  care  of  Goddard  he  was  in  some 
measure  serving  her,  too,  seeing  that  she  would  have 
done  the  same  thing  herself  could  she  have  been 
present. 

Yet  there  was  something  very  generous  and  large- 
hearted  in  the  way  Charles  Juxon  did  his  duty  by  the 
sick  man.  There  are  people  who  seem  by  nature 
designed  to  act  heroic  parts  in  life,  whose  actions 
habitually  take  an  heroic  form,  and  whose  whole 
character  is  of  another  stamp  from  that  of  average 
humanity.  Of  such  people  much  is  expected,  because 
they  seem  to  offer  much;  no  one  is  surprised  to  hear 
of  their  making  great  sacrifices,  no  one  is  astonished  if 


332  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

they  exhibit  great  personal  courage  in  times  of  danger. 
Very  often  they  are  people  of  large  vanity,  whose 
chiefest  vanity  is  not  to  seem  vain ;  gifted  with  great 
powers  and  always  seeking  opportunities  of  using 
them,  holding  high  ideas  upon  most  subjects  but 
rarely  conceiving  themselves  incapable  of  attaining 
to  any  ideal  they  select  for  their  admiration ;  brave  in 
combat  partly  from  real  courage,  partly,  as  I  have 
often  heard  officers  say  of  a  dandy  soldier  in  the 
ranks,  because  they  are  too  proud  to  run  away ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  heroic  by  temperament  and  in  virtue  of 
a  singular  compound  of  pride,  strength  and  virtue, 
often  accomplishing  really  great  things.  They  are 
almost  always  what  are  called  striking  people,  for 
their  pride  and  their  strength  generally  attract  atten 
tion  by  their  magnitude,  and  something  in  their  mere 
appearance  distinguishes  them  from  the  average  mass. 
But  Charles  Juxon  did  not  in  any  way  belong  to 
this  type,  any  more  than  the  other  persons  who  found 
themselves  concerned  in  the  events  which  culminated 
in  Goddard's  illness.  He  was  a  very  simple  man 
whose  pride  was  wholly  unconscious,  who  did  not 
believe  himself  destined  to  do  anything  remarkable, 
who  regarded  his  own  personality  as  rather  uninterest 
ing  and  who,  had  he  been  asked  about  himself,  would 
have  been  the  first  to  disclaim  any  sentiments  of  the 
heroic  kind.  With  very  little  imagination,  he  pos 
sessed  great  stability  himself  and  great  belief  in  the 
stability  of  things  in  general,  a  character  of  the  tradi 
tional  kind  known  as  "  northern,"  though  it  would  be 
much  more  just  to  describe  it  as  the  "  temperate  "  or 
"  central "  type  of  man.  Wherever  there  is  exaggera 
tion  in  nature,  there  is  exaggerated  imagination  in 
man.  The  solid  and  unimaginative  part  of  the 


XXI.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         333 

English  character  is  undeniably  derived  from  the 
Angles  or  from  the  Flemish;  it  is  morally  the  best 
part,  but  it  is  by  all  odds  the  least  interesting — it  is 
found  in  the  type  of  man  belonging  to  the  plains  in  a 
temperate  zone,  who  differs  in  every  respect  from  the 
real  northman,  his  distant  cousin  and  hereditary 
enemy.  If  Charles  Juxon  was  remarkable  for  anything 
it  was  for  his  modesty  and  reticence,  in  a  word,  for  his 
apparent  determination  not  to  be  remarkable  at  all. 

And  now,  in  the  extremest  anxiety  and  difficulty, 
his  character  served  him  well;  for  he  unconsciously 
refused  to  allow  to  himself  that  his  position  was 
extraordinary  or  his  responsibility  greater  than  he 
was  able  to  bear.  He  disliked  intensely  the  idea  of 
being  put  forward  or  thrust  into  a  dramatic  situation, 
and  he  consequently  failed  signally  to  fulfil  the  drama 
tic  necessities.  There  was  not  even  a  struggle  in  his 
heart  between  the  opposite  possibilities  of  letting 
Goddard  die,  by  merely  relaxing  his  attention,  and  of 
redoubling  his  care  and  bringing  about  his  recovery. 
He  never  once  asked  himself,  after  the  chances  of  the 
patient  surviving  the  fever  were  stated,  whether  he 
would  not  be  justified  in  sending  for  some  honest  house 
wife  from  the  village  to  take  care  of  the  tramp  instead 
of  looking  to  his  wants  himself.  He  simply  did  his 
best  to  save  the  man's  life,  without  hesitation,  without 
suspecting  that  he  was  doing  anything  extraordinary, 
doing,  as  he  had  always  done,  the  best  thing  that  came 
in  his  way  according  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  He 
could  not  wholly  suppress  the  reflection  that  much  good 
might  ensue  from  Goddard's  death,  but  the  thought 
never  for  a  moment  interfered  with  his  efforts  to  save 
the  convict  alive. 

But  John  lay  in  the  next  room,  kept  awake  by  the 


334  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

sick  man's  perpetual  groaning  and  by  the  train  of 
thought  which  ran  through  his  brain.  There  were 
indeed  more  strange  things  than  his  philosophy  could 
account  for,  but  the  strangest  of  all  was  that  the 
squire  should  know  who  the  tramp  was ;  he  must 
know  it,  John  thought,  since  he  knew  all  about  him, 
his  former  love  for  Mrs.  Goddard  and  his  recent  pres 
ence  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  young  man's  curiosity 
was  roused  to  its  highest  pitch  and  he  longed  to  know 
more.  He  at  once  guessed  that  there  must  have  been 
much  intimate  confidence  between  Mr.  Juxon  and 
Mrs.  Goddard ;  he  suspected  moreover  that  there  must 
be  some  strange  story  connected  with  her,  something 
which  accounted  for  the  peculiar  stamp  of  a  formerly 
luxurious  life  which  still  clung  to  her,  and  which 
should  explain  her  residence  in  Billingsfield.  But 
John  was  very  far  from  suspecting  the  real  truth. 

His  mind  was  restless  and  the  inaction  became 
intolerable  to  him.  He  rose  at  last  and  went  again 
into  the  room  where  his  friend  was  watching.  Mr. 
Juxon  sat  by  the  bedside,  the  very  picture  of  patience, 
one  leg  crossed  over  the  other  and  his  hands  folded 
together  upon  his  knee,  his  face  paler  than  usual  but 
perfectly  calm,  his  head  bent  a  little  to  one  side  and 
his  smooth  hair,  which  had  been  slightly  ruffled  in  the 
encounter  in  the  park,  as  smooth  as  ever.  It  was  a 
very  distinctive  feature  of  him ;  it  was  part  of  the  sleek 
and  spotless  neatness  which  Mrs.  Ambrose  so  much 
admired. 

"  It  is  my  turn,  now,"  said  John.  "  Will  you  lie 
down  for  a  couple  of  hours  ? " 

The  squire  rose.  Being  older  and  less  excitable 
than  John,  he  was  beginning  to  feel  the  need  of  rest. 
People  who  have  watched  often  by  the  sick  know  how 


XXI.          A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         335 

terribly  long  are  those  hours  of  the  night  between 
three  o'clock  and  dawn;  long  always,  but  seeming 
interminable  when  one  is  obliged  to  listen  perpetually 
to  a  long-drawn,  inarticulate  moaning,  a  constant  effort 
to  speak  which  never  results  in  words. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  quietly.  "  If 
you  will  give  him  the  things  from  time  to  time,  I  will 
take  a  nap." 

With  that  he  went  and  lay  down  upon  the  couch, 
and  in  three  minutes  was  as  sound  asleep  as  though 
he  were  in  bed.  John  sat  by  the  sick  man  and 
looked  at  his  flushed  features  and  listened  to  the  hard- 
drawn  breath  followed  each  time  by  that  terrible, 
monotonous,  mumbling  groan. 

It  might  have  been  three-quarters  of  an  hour  since 
the  squire  had  gone  to  sleep  when  John  thought  he 
saw  a  change  in  Goddard's  face;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  flush  subsided  from  his  forehead,  very  slowly, 
leaving  only  a  bright  burning  colour  in  his  cheeks. 
His  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  clearer  and  a 
strange  look  of  intelligence  came  into  them ;  his  whole 
appearance  was  as  though  illuminated  by  a  flash  of 
some  light  different  from  that  of  the  candles  which 
burned  upon  the  table.  John  rose  to  his  feet  and 
came  and  looked  at  him.  The  groaning  suddenly 
ceased  and  Goddard's  eyelids,  which  had  been  motion 
less  for  hours,  moved  naturally.  He  appeared  to  be 
observing  John's  face  attentively. 

"  Where  is  the  squire  ? "  he  asked  quite  naturally — 
so  naturally  that  John  was  startled. 

"  Asleep  in  the  next  room,"  replied  the  latter. 

"  I  did  not  kill  him  after  all,"  said  Goddard,  turning 
himself  a  little  as  though  to  be  more  at  his  ease. 

"  No,"  answered  John.     "  He   is   not  hurt   at   all. 


336  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Can  you  tell  me  who  you  are  ? "  For  his  life,  he 
could  not  help  asking  the  question.  It  seemed  so 
easy  to  find  out  who  the  fellow  was,  now  that  he 
could  speak  intelligibly.  But  Goddard's  face  con 
tracted  suddenly,  in  a  hideous  smile. 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  knew  ? "  he  said  roughly. 
"  But  I  know  you,  my  boy,  I  know  you — ha !  ha ! 
There's  no  getting  away  from  you,  my  boy,  is  there  ? " 

"  Who  am  I  ? "  asked  John  in  astonishment. 

"  You  are  the  hangman,"  said  Goddard.  "  I  know 
you  very  well.  The  hangman  is  always  so  well 
dressed.  I  say,  old  chap,  turn  us  off  quick,  you  know 
— no  fumbling  about  the  bolt.  Look  here — I  like  your 
face,"  he  lowered  his  voice — "  there  are  nearly  sixty 
pounds  in  my  right-hand  trouser  pocket — there  are — 
Mary — ah — gave — M — a — " 

Again  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  and  the  moaning 
began  and  continued.  John  was  horror-struck  and 
stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  his  face,  over  which 
the  deep  flush  had  spread  once  more,  seeming  to 
obliterate  all  appearance  of  intelligence.  Then  the 
young  man  put  his  hand  beneath  Goddard's  head  and 
gently  replaced  him  in  his  former  position,  smoothing 
the  pillows,  and  giving  him  a  little  brandy.  He 
debated  whether  or  not  he  should  call  the  squire  from 
his  rest  to  tell  him  what  had  happened,  but  seeing 
that  Goddard  had  now  returned  to  his  former  state, 
he  supposed  such  moments  of  clear  speech  were  to  be 
expected  from  time  to  time.  He  sat  down  again,  and 
waited ;  then  after  a  time  he  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  anxiously  for  the  dawn.  It  seemed  an  intoler 
ably  long  night. 

But  the  day  came  at  last  and  shed  a  ghastly  gray 
tinge  upon  the  sick-room,  revealing  as  it  were  the  out- 


xxi.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         337 

lines  of  all  that  was  bad  to  look  at,  which  the  warm 
yellow  candle-light  had  softened  with  a  kindlier 
touch.  John  accidentally  looked  at  himself  in  the 
mirror  as  he  passed  and  was  startled  at  his  own  pale 
face ;  but  the  convict,  labouring  in  the  ravings  of  his 
fever,  seemed  unconscious  of  the  dawning  day ;  he  was 
not  yet  exhausted  and  his  harsh  voice  never  ceased  its 
jarring  gibber.  John  wondered  whether  he  should 
ever  spend  such  a  night  again,  and  shuddered  at  the 
recollection  of  each  moment. 

The  daylight  waked  the  squire  from  his  slumbers, 
however,  and  before  the  sun  was  up  he  came  out  of 
the  dressing-room,  looking  almost  as  fresh  as  though 
nothing  had  happened  to  him  in  the  night.  Accus 
tomed  for  years  to  rise  at  all  hours,  in  all  weathers, 
unimpressionable,  calm  and  strong,  he  seemed  superior 
to  the  course  of  events. 

"  "Well,  Mr.  Short,  you  allowed  me  a  long  nap. 
You  must  be  quite  worn  out,  I  should  think.  How  is 
the  patient  ? " 

John  told  what  had  occurred. 

"  Took  you  for  the  hangman,  did  he  ? "  said  the 
squire.  "  I  wonder  why — but  you  say  he  asked  after 
me  very  sensibly  ? " 

"  Quite  so.  It  was  when  I  asked  him  his  own 
name,  that  he  began  raving  again,"  answered  John 
innocently. 

"  What  made  you  ask  him  that  ? "  asked  Mr.  Juxon, 
who  did  not  seem  pleased. 

"  Curiosity,"  was  John's  laconic  answer. 

"  Yes — but  I  fancy  it  frightened  him.  If  I  were 
you  I  would  not  do  it  again,  if  he  has  a  lucid  moment. 
I  imagine  it  was  fright  that  made  him  delirious  in  the 
first  instance." 

z 


338  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"All  right,"  quoth  John.  "I  won't."  But  he 
made  his  own  deductions.  The  squire  evidently 
knew  who  he  was,  and  did  not  want  John  to  know, 
for  some  unexplained  reason.  The  young  man  won 
dered  what  the  reason  could  be ;  the  mere  name  of 
the  wretched  man  was  not  likely  to  convey  any 
idea  to  his  mind,  for  it  was  highly  improbable 
that  he  had  ever  met  him  before  his  conviction. 
So  John  departed  to  his  own  room  and  refreshed 
himself  with  a  tub,  while  the  squire  kept  watch  by 
daylight. 

It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock  when  Holmes  brought 
a  note  from  the  vicar,  which  Mr.  Juxon  tore  open  and 
read  with  anxious  interest. 

"MY  DEAR  MR.  JUXON — I  received  your  note  late 
last  night,  but  I  judged  it  better  to  answer  this  morn 
ing,  not  wishing  to  excite  suspicion  by  sending  to  you 
at  so  late  an  hour.  The  intelligence  is  indeed  alarm 
ing  and  you  will,  I  daresay,  understand  me,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  found  it  necessary  to  communicate  it 
to  Mrs.  Ambrose " 

The  squire  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at  the 
vicar's  way  of  putting  the  point ;  but  he  read  quickly 
on. 

"She  however — and  I  confess  my  surprise  and 
gratification — desires  to  accompany  me  to  the  Hall 
this  morning,  volunteering  to  take  all  possible  care  of 
the  unfortunate  man.  As  she  has  had  much  experi 
ence  in  visiting  the  sick,  I  fancy  that  she  will  render 
us  very  valuable  assistance  in  saving  his  life.  Pray 
let  me  know  if  the  plan  has  your  approval,  as  it  may 
be  dangerous  to  lose  time. — Yours  sincerely, 

"  AUGUSTIN  AMBROSE." 


xxr.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         339 

Mr.  Juxon  was  delighted  to  find  that  the  difficult 
task  of  putting  Mrs.  Ambrose  in  possession  of  the  facts 
of  the  case  had  been  accomplished  in  the  ordinary,  the 
very  ordinary,  course  of  events  by  her  own  determina 
tion  to  find  out  what  was  to  be  known.  In  an  hour 
she  might  be  at  Goddard's  bedside,  and  Mrs.  Goddard 
would  be  free  to  see  her  husband.  He  despatched  a 
note  at  once  and  redoubled  his  attentions  to  the  sick 
man,  whose  condition,  however,  showed  no  signs  of 
changing. 


340  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 


CHAPTEE    XXII. 

MRS.  AMBROSE  kept  her  word  and  arrived  with  the 
vicar  before  nine  o'clock,  protesting  her  determination 
to  take  care  of  poor  Goddard,  so  long  as  he  needed 
any  care.  Mr.  Juxon  warned  her  that  John  did  not 
know  who  the  man  was,  and  entreated  her  to  be  care 
ful  of  her  speech  when  John  was  present.  There  was 
no  reason  why  John  should  ever  know  anything  more 
about  it,  he  said ;  three  could  keep  a  secret,  but  no 
one  knew  whether  four  could  be  as  discreet. 

The  squire  took  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  her  husband  to 
Goddard's  room  and  telling  her  that  Doctor  Longstreet 
was  expected  in  an  hour,  by  which  time  he  himself 
hoped  to  have  returned,  he  left  the  two  good  people  in 
charge  of  the  sick  man  and  went  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard. 
He  sent  John  a  message  to  the  effect  that  all  was  well 
and  that  he  should  take  some  rest  while  the 
Ambroses  relieved  the  watch,  and  having  thus  dis 
posed  his  household  he  went  out,  bound  upon  one 
of  the  most  disagreeable  errands  he  had  ever  under 
taken.  But  he  set  his  teeth  and  walked  boldly  down 
the  park. 

At  the  turn  of  the  avenue  he  paused,  at  the  spot 
where  Goddard  had  attacked  him.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  seen  at  first,  for  the  road  was  hard  and  dry  and 
there  was  no  trace  of  the  scuffle ;  but  as  the  squire 


xxii.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  341 

looked  about  he  spied  his  hat,  lying  in  the  ditch,  and 
picked  it  up.  It  was  heavy  with  the  morning  dew 
and  the  brim  was  broken  and  bent  where  Goddard's 
weapon  had  struck  it.  Hard  by  in  a  heap  of  driven 
oak  leaves  lay  the  weapon  itself,  which  Mr.  Juxon  ex 
amined  curiously.  It  was  a  heavy  piece  of  hewn  oak, 
evidently  very  old,  and  at  one  end  a  thick  iron  spike 
was  driven  through,  the  sharp  point  projecting  upon 
one  side  and  the  wrought  head  upon  the  other.  He 
turned  it  over  in  his  hands  and  realised  that  he  had 
narrowly  escaped  his  death.  Then  he  laid  the  hat  and 
the  club  together  and  threw  a  handful  of  leaves  over 
them,  intending  to  take  them  to  the  Hall  at  a  later 
hour,  and  he  turned  to  go  upon  his  way  towards  the 
cottage.  But  as  he  turned  he  saw  two  men  coming 
towards  him,  and  now  not  twenty  yards  away.  His 
heart  sank,  for  one  of  the  two  was  Thomas  Gall  the 
village  constable ;  the  other  was  a  quiet-looking  in 
dividual  with  gray  whiskers,  plainly  dressed  and  un 
assuming  in  appearance.  Instinctively  the  squire 
knew  that  Gall's  companion  must  be  a  detective.  He 
was  startled,  and  taken  altogether  unawares ;  but  the 
men  were  close  upon  him  and  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  face  them  boldly. 

Gall  made  his  usual  half  military  salute  as  he  came 
up,  and  the  man  in  plain  clothes  raised  his  hat 
politely. 

"The  gentleman  from  Lunnon,  sir,"  said  Gall  by 
way  of  introduction,  assuming  an  air  of  mysterious 
importance. 

"  Yes  ? "  said  Mr.  Juxon  interrogatively.  "  Do  you 
wish  to  speak  to  me  ? " 

"  The  gentleman's  come  on  business,  sir.  In  point 
of  fact,  sir,  it's  the  case  we  was  speakin'  of  lately." 


342  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

The  squire  knew  very  well  what  was  the  matter. 
Indeed,  he  had  wondered  that  the  detective  had  not 
arrived  sooner.  That  did  not  make  it  any  easier  to 
receive  him,  however;  on  the  contrary,  if  he  had 
come  on  the  previous  day  matters  would  have  been 
much  simpler. 

"  Very  well,  Gall,"  answered  Mr.  Juxon.  "  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  bringing  Mr. — "  he  paused 
and  looked  at  the  man  in  plain  clothes. 

"  Booley,  sir,"  said  the  detective. 

"  Thank  you — yes — for  bringing  Mr.  Booley  so  far. 
You  may  go  home,  Gall.  If  we  need  your  services 
we  will  send  to  your  house." 

"It  struck  me,  sir,"  remarked  Gall  with  a  bland 
smile,  "  as  perhaps  I  might  be  of  use — prefeshnal  in 
fact,  sir." 

"  I  will  send  for  you,"  said  the  detective,  shortly. 
The  manners  of  the  rural  constabulary  had  long  ceased 
to  amuse  him. 

Gall  departed  rather  reluctantly,  but  to  make  up 
for  being  left  out  of  the  confidential  interview  which 
was  to  follow,  he  passed  his  thumb  round  his  belt  and 
thrust  out  his  portly  chest  as  he  marched  down  the 
avenue.  He  subsequently  spoke  very  roughly  to  a 
little  boy  who  was  driving  an  old  sheep  to  the  butcher's 
at  the  other  end  of  the  village. 

Mr.  Juxon  and  the  detective  turned  back  and 
walked  slowly  towards  the  Hall. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  state  exactly  what 
the  business  is,"  said  the  squire,  well  knowing  that  it 
was  best  to  go  straight  to  the  point. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Juxon,  I  believe  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Booley  looking  at  his  companion  sharply.  The  squire 
nodded.  "Very  good,  Mr.  Juxon,"  continued  the 


xxn.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         343 

official.  "  I  am  after  a  man  called  Walter  Goddard. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?  His  wife,  Mrs. 
Mary  Goddard,  lives  in  this  village." 

"  Walter  Goddard  is  at  this  moment  in  my  house," 
said  the  squire  calmly.  "  I  know  all  about  him.  He 
lay  in  wait  for  me  at  this  very  spot  last  night  and 
attacked  me.  My  dog  pulled  him  down." 

The  detective  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  in 
telligence,  and  at  the  cool  manner  in  which  his  com 
panion  conveyed  it. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that.  In  that  case  I  will 
take  him  at  once." 

"I  fear  that  is  impossible,"  answered  the  squire. 
"  The  man  is  raving  in  the  delirium  of  a  brain  fever. 
Meanwhile  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  stay  in  the 
house,  until  he  is  well  enough  to  be  moved.  The  doctor 
will  be  here  at  ten  o'clock,  and  he  will  give  you  the 
details  of  the  case  better  than  I  can.  It  would  be 
quite  impossible  to  take  him  away  at  present. 

"  May  I  ask,"  inquired  Mr.  Booley  severely,  "  why 
you  did  not  inform  the  local  police  ? " 

"  Because  it  would  have  been  useless.  If  he  had 
escaped  after  attacking  me,  I  should  have  done  so. 
But  since  I  caught  him,  and  found  him  to  be  very  ill 
— utterly  unable  to  move,  I  proposed  to  take  charge 
of  him  myself.  Mrs.  Goddard  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  of  the  vicar,  who  knows  her  story  perfectly  well. 
To  publish  the  story  in  the  village  would  be  to  do  her 
a  great  injury.  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  vicar's  wife,  who 
is  also  acquainted  with  the  circumstances,  is  at  this 
moment  taking  care  of  the  sick  man.  I  presume  that 
my  promise — I  am  a  retired  officer  of  the  Navy — 
and  the  promise  of  Mr.  Ambrose,  the  vicar,  are  sufficient 
guarantee " 


344  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  question  of  guarantee,"  said  Mr. 
Booley.  "  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Juxon,  I  have  no  doubt 
whatever  that  you  have  acted  for  the  best.  Can  you 
tell  me  how  long  Goddard  has  been  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  ? " 

The  squire  told  the  detective  what  he  knew,  taking 
care  not  to  implicate  Mrs.  Goddard,  even  adding  with 
considerable  boldness,  for  he  was  not  positively  certain 
of  the  statement,  that  neither  she  nor  any  one  else 
had  known  where  the  man  was  hiding.  Mr.  Booley 
being  sure  that  Goddard  could  not  escape  him,  saw 
that  he  could  claim  the  reward  offered  for  the  capture 
of  the  convict.  He  asked  whether  he  might  see 
him. 

"  That  is  doubtful,"  said  the  squire.  "  When  I  left 
him  just  now  he  was  quite  unconscious,  but  he  has 
lucid  moments.  To  frighten  him  at  such  a  time  might 
kill  him  outright." 

"  It  is  very  easy  for  me  to  say  that  I  am  another 
medical  man,"  remarked  Mr.  Booley.  "  Perhaps  I 
might  say  it  in  any  case,  just  to  keep  the  servants 
quiet.  I  would  like  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard,  too." 

"  That  is  another  matter.  She  is  very  nervous.  I 
am  going  to  her  house,  now,  and  probably  she  will 
come  back  to  the  Hall  with  me.  I  might  perhaps  tell 
her  that  you  are  here,  but  I  think  it  would  be  likely 
to  shock  her  very  much." 

"  Well,  well,  we  will  see  about  it,"  answered  Mr. 
Booley.  They  reached  the  house  and  the  squire 
ushered  the  detective  into  the  study,  begging  him  to 
wait  for  his  return. 

It  was  a  new  complication,  though  it  had  seemed 
possible  enough.  But  the  position  was  not  pleasant. 
To  feel  that  there  was  a  detective  in  the  house  waiting 


XXII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  345 

to  carry  off  Goddard,  so  soon  as  he  should  be  well 
enough  to  be  moved,  was  about  as  disagreeable  as  any 
thing  well  could  be.  The  longer  the  squire  thought  of 
it,  the  more  impossible  and  at  the  same  time  un 
necessary  it  seemed  to  be  to  inform  Mrs.  Goddard  of 
Booley's  arrival.  He  hastened  down  the  park,  feeling 
that  no  time  must  be  lost  in  bringing  her  to  her 
husband's  bedside. 

He  found  her  waiting  for  him,  and  was  struck  by 
the  calmness  she  displayed.  To  tell  the  truth  the 
violence  of  her  emotions  had  been  wholly  expended  on 
the  previous  night  and  the  reaction  had  brought  an 
intense  melancholy  quiet,  which  almost  frightened  Mr. 
Juxon.  The  habit  of  bearing  great  anxiety  had  not 
been  wholly  forgotten,  for  the  lesson  had  been  well 
learned  during  those  terrible  days  of  her  husband's 
trial,  and  it  was  as  though  his  sudden  return  had  re 
vived  in  her  the  custom  of  silent  suffering.  She 
hardly  spoke,  but  listened  quietly  to  Mr.  Juxon's 
account  of  what  had  happened. 

"You  are  not  hurt  ? "  she  asked,  almost  incredulously. 
Her  eyes  rested  on  her  friend's  face  with  a  wistful 
look. 

"  No,  I  assure  you,  not  in  the  least,"  he  said.  "  But 
your  poor  husband  is  very  ill — very  ill  indeed." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  she  quietly,  "  is  he  dead  ?  Are 
you  trying  to  break  it  to  me  ? " 

"No — no  indeed.  He  is  alive — he  may  even  re 
cover.  But  that  is  very  uncertain.  It  might  be  best 
to  wait  until  the  doctor  has  been  again.  I  will  come 
back  and  fetch  you " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  will  go  at  once.  I  would  like  to  walk. 
It  will  do  me  good." 

So  the  two  set  out  without  further  words  upon  their 


346  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

errand.  Mr.  Juxon  had  purposely  omitted  to  speak 
of  Mr.  Booley's  arrival.  It  would  be  easy,  he  thought, 
to  prevent  them  from  meeting  in  the  great  house. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Mary  Goddard,  as  they  walked 
together,  "it  is  very  hard  to  wish  that  he  may  re 
cover — "  she  stopped  short. 

"  Very  hard,"  answered  the  squire.  "  His  life  must 
be  one  of  misery,  if  he  lives." 

"  Of  course  you  would  send  him  back  ? "  she  asked 
nervously. 

"  My  dear  friend,  there  is  no  other  course  open  to 
me.  Your  own  safety  requires  it." 

"  God  knows — you  would  only  be  doing  right,"  she 
said  and  was  silent  again.  She  knew,  though  the 
squire  did  not,  what  fate  awaited  Walter  Goddard  if 
he  were  given  up  to  justice.  She  knew  that  he  had 
taken  life  and  must  pay  the  penalty.  Yet  she  was  very 
calm;  her  senses  were  all  dulled  and  yet  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  consecutive  and  rational.  She  realised 
fully  that  the  case  of  life  and  death  was  ill  balanced ; 
death  had  it  whichever  course  events  might  take,  and 
she  could  not  save  her  husband.  She  thought  of  it 
calmly  and  calmly  hoped  that  he  might  die  now,  in 
his  bed,  with  her  by  his  side.  It  was  a  better  fate. 

"  You  say  that  the  doctor  thinks  he  must  have  been 
ill  some  time  ? "  she  asked  after  a  time. 

"Yes — he  was  quite  sure  of  it,"  answered  the 
squire. 

"  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  spoke  so  roughly  to  me," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  though  speaking  to  herself. 

The  tears  came  into  the  squire's  eyes  for  sheer 
pity.  Even  in  this  utmost  extremity  the  unhappy 
woman  tried  to  account  for  her  husband's  rude  and 
cruel  speech.  Mr.  Juxon  did  not  answer  but  looked 


xxn.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         347 

away.  They  passed  the  spot  where  the  scuffle  had 
occurred  on  the  previous  night,  but  still  he  said 
nothing,  fearing  to  disturb  her  by  making  his  story 
seem  too  vividly  real. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  she  asked  as  they  reached  the  Hall, 
looking  up  at  the  windows. 

"On  the  other  side." 

They  went  in  and  mounted  the  stairs  towards  the 
sick  man's  chamber.  Mr.  Juxon  went  in,  leaving  Mrs. 
Goddard  outside  for  a  moment.  She  could  hear  that 
hideous  rattling  monotonous  moan,  and  she  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  Presently  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose 
came  out,  looking  very  grave  and  passed  by  her  with  a 
look  of  sympathy. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ? "  said  the  squire  in  a  low 
voice. 

Mrs.  Goddard  entered  the  room  quickly.  On  seeing 
her  husband,  she  uttered  a  low  cry  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  Mr.  Juxon's  arm.  For  some  seconds  she  stood 
thus,  quite  motionless,  gazing  with  intense  and  sympa 
thetic  interest  at  the  sick  man's  face.  Then  she  went 
to  his  side  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  burning  forehead 
and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Walter !  Walter !  "  she  cried.  "  Don't  you  know 
me  ?  Oh,  why  does  he  groan  like  that  ?  Is  he  suf 
fering  ? "  she  asked  turning  to  Mr.  Juxon. 

"  No — I  do  not  think  he  suffers  much.  He  is  quite 
unconscious.  He  is  talking  all  the  time  but  cannot 
pronounce  the  words." 

The  squire  stood  at  a  distance  looking  on,  noting  the 
womanly  thoughtfulness  Mrs.  Goddard  displayed  as 
she  smoothed  her  husband's  pillow  and  tried  to  settle 
his  head  more  comfortably  upon  the  bags  of  ice ;  and 
all  the  while  she  never  took  her  eyes  from  Goddard's 


348  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

face,  as  though  she  were  fascinated  by  her  own  sorrow 
and  his  suffering.  She  moved  about  the  bed  with  that 
instinctive  understanding  of  sickness  which  belongs  to 
delicate  women,  but  her  glance  never  strayed  to  Mr. 
Juxon ;  she  seemed  forced  by  a  mysterious  magnetism 
to  look  at  Walter  and  only  at  him. 

"  Has  he  been  long  like  this  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Ever  since  last  night.  He  called  you  once — he 
said,  '  Mary  Goddard,  let  me  in  ! '  And  then  he  said 
something  else — he  said — I  cannot  remember  what  he 
said."  Mr.  Juxon  checked  himself,  remembering  the 
words  John  had  heard,  and  of  which  he  only  half 
understood  the  import.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  hardly 
noticed  his  reply. 

"  Will  you  leave  me  alone  with  him  ? "  she  said 
presently.  "There  is  a  bell  in  the  room — I  could 
ring  if  anything — happened,"  she  added  with  mournful 
hesitation. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  the  squire.  "  Only,  I  beg  of 
you  my  dear  friend — do  not  distress  yourself  need 
lessly " 

"Needlessly!"  she  repeated  with  a  sorrowful  smile. 
"  It  is  all  I  can  do  for  him — to  watch  by  his  side. 
He  will  not  live — he  will  not  live,  I  am  sure." 

The  squire  inwardly  prayed  that  she  might  be  right, 
and  left  her  alone  with  the  sick  man.  Who,  he 
thought,  was  better  fitted,  who  had  a  stronger  right  to 
be  at  his  bedside  at  such  a  time  ?  If  only  he  might 
die !  For  if  he  lived,  how  much  more  terrible  would 
the  separation  be,  when  Booley  the  detective  came  to 
conduct  him  back  to  his  prison  !  In  truth,  it  would 
be  more  terrible  even  than  Mr.  Juxon  imagined. 

Meanwhile  he  must  go  and  see  to  the  rest  of  the 
household.  He  must  speak  to  John  Short;  he  must 


xxir.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  349 

see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and  he  must  take  precau 
tions  against  any  of  them  seeing  Mr.  Booley.  This 
was,  he  thought,  very  important,  and  he  resolved  to 
speak  with  the  latter  first.  John  was  probably  asleep, 
worn  out  with  the  watching  of  the  night. 

Mr.  Booley  sat  in  the  squire's  study  where  he  had 
been  left  almost  an  hour  earlier.  He  had  installed 
himself  in  a  comfortable  corner  by  the  fire  and  was 
reading  the  morning  paper  which  he  had  found  un 
opened  upon  the  table.  He  seemed  thoroughly  at 
home  as  he  sat  there,  a  pair  of  glasses  upon  his  nose 
and  his  feet  stretched  out  towards  the  flame  upon  the 
hearth. 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  doing  very  well,  Mr.  Juxon,"  he 
said  as  the  squire  entered. 

"Oh  —  I  am  very  glad,"  answered  Mr.  Juxon 
politely.  The  information  was  wholly  voluntary  as  he 
had  not  asked  any  question  concerning  the  detective's 
comfort. 

"  And  how  is  the  patient  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Booley. 
"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  of  removing  him 
this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  This  afternoon  ? "  repeated  the  squire,  in  some 
astonishment.  "  The  man  is  very  ill.  It  may  be 
weeks  before  he  can  be  removed." 

"  Oh  !"  ejaculated  the  other.  "  I  was  not  aware  of 
that.  I  cannot  possibly  stay  so  long.  To-morrow, 
at  the  latest,  he  will  have  to  go." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  argued  Mr.  Juxon,  "  the  thing 
is  quite  impossible.  The  doctor  can  testify  to 
that— 

"  We  are  apt  to  be  our  own  doctors  in  these  cases," 
said  Mr.  Booley,  calmly.  "  At  all  events  he  can  be 
taken  as  far  as  the  county  gaol." 


350  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  CHAP. 

"  Upon  my  word,  it  would  be  murder  to  think  of  it 
— a  man  in  a  brain  fever,  in  a  delirium,  to  be  taken 
over  jolting  roads — dear  me !  It  is  not  to  be 
thought  of ! " 

Mr.  Booley  smiled  benignly,  for  the  first  time  since 
the  squire  had  made  his  acquaintance. 

"  You  seem  to  forget,  Mr.  Juxon,  that  my  time  is 
very  valuable/'  he  observed. 

"  Yes — no  doubt — but  the  man's  life,  Mr.  Booley,  is 
valuable  too." 

"Hardly,  I  should  say,"  returned  the  detective 
coolly.  "  But  since  you  are  so  very  pressing,  I  will  ask 
to  see  the  man  at  once.  I  can  soon  tell  you  whether  he 
will  die  on  the  road  or  not.  I  have  had  considerable 
experience  in  that  line." 

"  You  shall  see  him,  as  soon  as  the  doctor  comes," 
replied  the  squire,  shocked  at  the  man's  indifference 
and  hardness. 

"  It  certainly  cannot  hurt  him  to  see  me,  if  he  is 
still  unconscious  or  raving,"  objected  Mr.  Booley. 

"  He  might  have  a  lucid  moment  just  when  you  are 
there — the  fright  would  very  likely  kill  him." 

"  That  would  decide  the  question  of  moving  him," 
answered  Booley,  taking  his  glasses  from  his  nose, 
laying  down  the  paper  and  rising  to  his  feet.  "  There 
is  clearly  some  reason  why  you  object  to  my  seeing 
him  now.  I  would  not  like  to  insist,  Mr.  Juxon,  but 
you  must  please  remember  that  it  may  be  my  duty  to 
do  so." 

The  squire  was  beginning  to  be  angry;  even  his 
calm  temper  was  not  proof  against  the  annoyance 
caused  by  Mr.  Booley's  appearance  at  the  Hall,  but  he 
wisely  controlled  himself  and  resorted  to  other  means 
of  persuasion. 


xxn.         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         351 

"  There  is  a  reason,  Mr.  Booley ;  indeed  there  are 
several  very  good  reasons.  One  of  them  is  that  it 
might  be  fatal  to  frighten  the  man ;  another  is  that  at 
this  moment  his  wife  is  by  his  bedside.  She  has 
entirely  made  up  her  mind  that  when  he  is  recovered 
he  must  return  to  prison,  but  at  present  it  would  be 
most  unkind  to  let  her  know  that  you  are  in  the 
house.  The  shock  to  her  nerves  would  be  terrible." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Booley,  "  if  there  is  a  lady  in  the 
case  we  must  make  some  allowances,  I  presume. 
Only,  put  yourself  in  my  place,  Mr.  Juxon,  put  your 
self  in  my  place." 

The  squire  doubted  whether  he  would  be  willing  to 
exchange  his  personality  for  that  of  Mr.  Booley. 

«  Well — what  then  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  think  I  would 
try  to  be  merciful" 

"  Yes  ;  but  suppose  that  in  being  merciful,  you  just 
allowed  that  lady  the  time  necessary  to  present  her 
beloved  husband  with  a  convenient  little  pill,  just  to 
shorten  his  sufferings  ?  And  suppose  that " 

"  Eeally,  Mr.  Booley,  I  think  you  make  very  un 
warrantable  suppositions,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  severely. 
"  I  cannot  suppose  any  such  thing." 

"  Many  women — ladies  too — have  done  that  to  save 
a  man  from  hanging,"  returned  Mr.  Booley,  fixing  his 
gray  eye  on  the  squire. 

"  Hanging  ? "  repeated  the  latter  in  surprise.  "But 
Goddard  is  not  to  be  hanged." 

"  Of  course  he  is.  What  did  you  expect  ? "  Mr. 
Booley  looked  surprised  in  his  turn. 

"  But — what  for  ? "  asked  the  squire  very  anxiously. 
"  He  has  not  killed  anybody " 

"  Oh — then  you  don't  know  how  he  escaped  ? " 

"  No — I  have  not  the  least  idea — pray  tell  me." 


352  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  don't  understand  me,  then," 
said  Mr.  Booley.  "  Well,  it  is  a  short  tale  but  a  lively 
one,  as  they  say.  Of  course  it  stands  to  reason  in  the 
first  place  that  he  could  not  have  got  out  of  Portland. 
He  was  taken  out  for  a  purpose.  You  know  that  after 
his  trial  was  over,  all  sorts  of  other  things  besides  the 
forgery  came  out  about  him,  proving  that  he  was  alto 
gether  a  very  bad  lot.  Now  about  three  weeks  ago 
there  was  a  question  of  identifying  a  certain  person — 
it  was  a  very  long  story,  with  a  bad  murder  case  and 
all  the  rest  of  it — commonplace,  you  know  the  sort — 
never  mind  the  story,  it  will  all  be  in  the  papers  before 
long  when  they  have  got  it  straight,  which  is  more 
than  I  have,  seeing  that  these  affairs  do  get  a  little 
complicated  occasionally,  you  know,  as  such  things 
will."  Mr.  Booley  paused.  It  was  evident  that  his 
command  of  the  English  tongue  was  not  equal  to  the 
strain  of  constructing  a  long  sentence. 

"  This  person,  whom  he  was  to  identify,  was  the 
person  murdered  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Juxon. 

"  Exactly.  It  was  not  the  person,  but  the  person's 
body,  so  to  say.  Somebody  who  had  been  connected 
with  the  Goddard  case  was  sure  that  if  Goddard 
could  be  got  out  of  prison  he  could  do  the  identifying 
all  straight.  It  did  not  matter  about  his  being  under 
sentence  of  hard  labour — it  was  a  private  case,  and 
the  officer  only  wanted  Goddard's  opinion  for  his  per 
sonal  satisfaction.  So  he  goes  to  the  governor  of 
Portland,  and  finds  that  Goddard  had  a  very  good 
character  in  that  institution — he  was  a  little  bit  of  a 
gay  deceiver,  you  see,  and  knew  how  to  fetch  the  chaps 
in  there  and  particularly  the  parson.  So  he  had 
a  good  character.  Very  good.  The  governor  con 
sents  to  send  him  to  town  for  this  private  job,  under 


xxil.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  353 

a  strong  force — that  means  three  policemen — with 
irons  on  his  hands.  When  they  reached  London  they 
put  him  in  a  fourwheeler.  Those  things  are  done 
sometimes,  and  nobody  is  the  wiser,  because  the 
governor  does  it  on  his  own  responsibility,  for  the  good 
of  the  law,  I  suppose.  I  never  approved  of  it.  Do 
you  follow  me,  Mr.  Juxon  ? " 

"  Perfectly,"  answered  the  squire.  "  He  was  driven 
from  the  station  with  three  policemen  in  a  hackney- 
coach,  you  say." 

"  Exactly  so.  It  was  a  queer  place  where  the  body 
was — away  down  in  the  Minories.  Ever  been  there, 
Mr.  Juxon?  Queer  place  it  is,  and  no  mistake.  I 
would  like  to  show  you  some  little  bits  of  London. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  the  fourwheeler  went  along,  with 
two  policemen  inside  with  Goddard  and  one  on  the 
box.  Safe,  you  would  say.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Just 
the  beggar's  luck,  too.  It  was  dusk.  That  is  always 
darker  than  when  the  lamps  are  well  going.  The  four 
wheeler  ran  into  a  dray-cart,  round  a  corner  where 
they  were  repairing  the  street.  The  horse  went  down 
with  a  smash,  shafts,  lamp  everything  broken  to 
smithereens,  as  they  say.  The  policeman  jumps  off 
the  box  with  the  cabby  to  see  what  is  the  matter. 
One  of  the  bobbies — the  policemen  I  would  say — it's 
a  technical  term  Mr.  Juxon — gets  out  of  the  cab  to 
see  what's  up,  leaving  Goddard  in  charge  of  the  other. 
Then  there  is  a  terrific  row;  more  carts  come  up, 
more  fourwheelers  —  everybody  swearing  at  once. 
Presently  the  policeman  who  had  got  out  comes  back 
and  looks  in  to  see  if  everything  is  straight.  Not  a 
bit  of  it  again.  Other  door  of  the  cab  waa  open  and — 
no  Goddard.  But  the  policeman  was  lying  back  in 
the  corner  and  when  they  struck  a  light  and  looked, 

2  A 


354  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

they  found  he  was  stone  dead.  Goddard  had  brained 
him  with  the  irons  on  his  wrists.  No  one  ever  saw 
him  from  that  day  to  this.  He  must  have  known 
London  well — they  said  he  did,  and  he  was  a  noted 
quick  runner.  Being  nightfall  and  rather  foggy  as  it 
generally  is  in  those  parts  he  got  clear  off.  But  he 
killed  the  man  who  had  him  in  charge  and  if  he 
lives  he  will  have  to  swing  for  it.  May  be  Mrs. 
Goddard  does  not  know  that — may  be  she  does.  That 
is  the  reason  I  don't  want  her  to  be  left  alone  with 
him.  No  doubt  she  is  very  good  and  all  that,  but  she 
might  just  take  it  into  her  head  to  save  the  govern 
ment  twenty  feet  of  rope." 

"  I  am  very  much  surprised,  and  very  much 
shocked,"  said  the  squire  gravely.  "I  had  no  idea 
of  this.  But  I  will  answer  for  Mrs.  Goddard.  Why 
was  all  this  never  in  the  papers — or  was  there  an 
account  of  it,  Mr.  Booley  ? " 

"  Oh  no — it  was  never  mentioned.  We  felt  sure 
that  we  should  catch  him  and  until  we  did  we — I 
mean  the  profession — thought  it  just  as  well  to  say 
nothing.  The  governor  remembered  to  have  read  a 
letter  from  Goddard's  wife,  just  telling  him  where  she 
was  living,  about  two  years  ago.  Being  harmless,  he 
passed  it  and  never  copied  the  address;  then  he 
could  not  remember  it.  At  last  they  found  it  in  his 
cell,  hidden  away  somehow.  The  beggar  had  kept  it." 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Juxon.  In  the 
silence  which  followed,  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard 
outside.  Doctor  Longstreet  had  arrived. 


XXIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  355 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

WHILE  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  were  together  in  the 
library  downstairs,  while  John  Short  was  waking  from 
the  short  sleep  he  had  enjoyed,  and  while  the  squire 
was  listening  in  the  study  to  Mr.  Booley's  graphic 
account  of  the  convict's  escape,  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
alone  with  her  husband,  watching  every  movement 
and  listening  intently  to  every  moaning  breath  he 
drew. 

In  the  desperate  anxiety  for  his  fate,  she  forgot 
herself  and  seemed  no  longer  to  feel  fatigue  or  ex 
haustion  from  all  she  herself  had  suffered.  She  stood 
long  by  his  bedside,  hoping  that  he  might  recognise 
her  and  yet  fearing  the  moment  when  he  should 
recover  his  senses.  Then  she  noticed  that  the  morn 
ing  sun  was  pouring  in  through  the  window  and  she 
drew  a  curtain  across,  to  shade  his  eyes  from  the 
glare.  Whether  the  sudden  changing  of  the  light 
affected  Goddard,  as  it  does  sometimes  affect  persons 
in  the  delirium  of  a  brain  fever,  or  whether  it  was 
only  a  natural  turn  in  his  condition,  she  never  knew. 
His  expression  changed  and  acquired  that  same  look 
of  strange  intelligence  which  John  Short  had  noticed 
in  the  night ;  the  flush  sank  from  his  forehead  and 
gave  place  to  a  luminous,  transparent  colour,  his  eye 
lids  once  more  moved  naturally,  and  he  looked  at  his 


356  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

wife  as  she  stood  beside  him,  and  recognised  her.  He 
was  weaker  now  than  when  he  had  spoken  with  John 
Short  six  hours  earlier,  but  he  was  more  fully  in  pos 
session  of  his  faculties  for  a  brief  moment.  Mary 
Goddard  trembled  and  felt  her  hands  turn  cold  with 
excitement. 

"  Walter,  do  you  know  me  now  ? "  she  asked  very 
softly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  faintly,  and  closed  his  eyes.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  forehead;  the  coldness  of  it 
seemed  pleasant  to  him,  for  a  slight  smile  nickered 
over  his  face. 

"You  are  better,  I  think,"  she  said  again,  gazing 
intently  at  him. 

"  Mary — it  is  Mary  ? "  he  murmured,  slowly  open 
ing  his  eyes  and  looking  up  to  her.  "  Yes — I  know 
you  —  I  have  been  dreaming  a  long  time.  I'm  so 
tired " 

"  You  must  not  talk,"  said  she.  "  It  will  tire  you 
more."  Then  she  gave  him  some  drink.  "  Try  and 
sleep,"  she  said  in  a  soothing  tone. 

"  I  cannot — oh,  Mary,  I  am  very  ill." 

"  But  you  will  get  well  again " 

Goddard  started  suddenly,  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  arm  with  more  force  than  she  suspected  he 
possessed. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked,  staring  about  the  room. 
"  Is  this  your  house,  Mary  ?  What  became  of 
Juxon  ? " 

"He  is  not  hurt.  He  brought  you  home  in  his 
arms,  Walter,  to  his  own  house,  and  is  taking  care  of 
you." 

"  Good  heavens !  He  will  give  me  up.  No,  no, 
don't  hold  me — I  must  be  off ! " 


xxin.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  357 

He  made  a  sudden  effort  to  rise,  but  he  was  very 
weak.  He  fell  back  exhausted  upon  his  pillow ;  his 
fingers  gripped  the  sheet  convulsively,  and  his  face 
grew  paler. 

"  Caught — like  a  rat ! "  he  muttered.  Mary  God- 
dard  sighed. 

Was  she  to  give  him  hope  of  escape  ?  Or  should 
she  try  to  calm  him  now,  and  when  he  was  better, 
break  the  truth  to  him  ?  Was  she  to  make  him  be 
lieve  that  he  was  safe  for  the  present,  and  hold  out  a 
prospect  of  escape  when  he  should  be  better,  or  should 
she  tell  him  now,  once  for  all,  while  he  was  in  his 
senses,  that  he  was  lost  ?  It  was  a  terrible  position. 
Love  she  had  none  left  for  him,  but  there  was  infinite 
pity  still  in  her  heart  and  there  would  be  while  he 
breathed.  She  hesitated  one  moment  only,  and  it 
may  be  that  she  decided  for  the  wrong ;  but  it  was 
her  pity  that  moved  her,  and  not  any  remnant  of 
love. 

"  Hush,  Walter,"  she  said.  "  You  may  yet  escape, 
when  you  are  strong  enough.  You  are  quite  safe 
here,  for  the  present.  Mr.  Juxon  would  not  think 
of  giving  you  up  now.  By  and  by — the  window  is 
not  high,  Walter,  and  I  shall  often  be  alone  with 
you.  I  will  manage  it." 

"  Is  that  true  ?  Are  you  cheating  me  ?  "  cried 
the  wretched  man  in  broken  tones.  "No — you  "are 
speaking  the  truth  —  I  know  it  —  God  bless  you 
Mary ! "  Again  he  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  one  or 
two  long  deep  breaths. 

Strange  to  say,  the  blessing  the  miserable  convict 
called  down  upon  her  was  sweet  to  Mary  Goddard, 
sweeter  than  anything  she  remembered  for  a  long  time. 
She  had  perhaps  done  wrong  in  giving  him  hopes  of 


358  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

escaping,  but  at  least  he  was  grateful  to  her.  It  was 
more  than  she  expected,  for  she  remembered  her  last 
meeting  with  him,  and  the  horrible  ingratitude  he  had 
then  shown  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  his  heart  had 
been  softened  a  little ;  anything  was  better  than  that 
rough  indifference  he  had  affected  before.  Presently 
he  spoke  again. 

"  Not  that  it  makes  much  difference  now,  Mary,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  think  there  is  much  left  of  me." 

"Do  not  say  that,  Walter,"  she  answered  gently. 
"  Eest  now.  The  more  you  rest  the  sooner  you  will 
be  well  again.  Try  and  sleep." 

"  Sleep  —  no  —  I  cannot  sleep.  I  have  murdered 
sleep — like  Macbeth,  Mary,  like  Macbeth — Do  you 
remember  Macbeth  ? " 

"  Hush,"  'said  Mary  Goddard,  endeavouring  to  calm 
him,  though  she  turned  pale  at  his  strange  quotation. 
«  Hush " 

"  That  is  to  say,"  said  the  sick  man,  heedless  of  her 
exhortation  and  soothing  touch,  "  that  is  to  say,  I  did 
not.  He  was  very  wide  awake,  and  if  I  had  not  been 
quick,  I  should  never  have  got  off.  Ugh !  How 
damp  that  cellar  was,  that  first  night.  That  is  where 
I  got  my  fever.  It  is  fever,  I  suppose  ? "  he  asked, 
unable  to  keep  his  mind  for  long  in  one  groove. 
"  What  does  the  doctor  say  ?  Has  he  been  here  ? " 

"  Yes.  He  said  you  would  soon  be  well ;  but  he 
said  you  must  be  kept  very  quiet.  So  you  must  not 
talk,  or  I  will  go  away." 

"  Oh  Mary,  don't  go — don't  go  !  It's  like — ha !  ha ! 
it's  quite  like  old  times  Mary  ! "  He  laughed  harshly, 
a  hideous,  half-delirious  laugh. 

Mary  Goddard  shuddered  but  made  a  great  effort  to 
control  herself. 


xxiii.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  359 

"  Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "  it  is  like  old  times.  Try 
and  think  that  it  is  the  old  house  at  Putney,  Walter. 
Do  you  hear  the  sparrows  chirping,  just  as  they  used 
to  do  ?  The  curtains  are  the  same  colour,  too.  You 
used  to  sleep  so  quietly  at  the  old  house.  Try  and 
sleep  now.  Then  you  will  soon  get  well.  Now,  I  will 
sit  beside  you,  but  I  will  not  talk  any  more — there — 
are  you  quite  comfortable  ?  A  little  higher  ?  Yes — 
so.  Go  to  sleep." 

Her  quiet  voice  soothed  him,  and  her  gentle  hands 
made  his  rest  more  easy.  She  sat  down  beside  him, 
thinking  from  his  silence  that  he  would  really  go  to 
sleep ;  hoping  and  yet  not  hoping,  revolving  in  her 
mind  the  chances  of  his  escape,  so  soon  as  he  should 
be  strong  enough  to  attempt  it,  shuddering  at  the 
thought  of  what  his  fate  must  be  if  he  again  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  police.  She  did  not  know  that  a 
detective  was  at  that  moment  in  the  house,  determined 
to  carry  her  husband  away  so  soon  as  the  doctor  pro 
nounced  it  possible.  Nothing  indeed,  not  even  that 
knowledge  could  have  added  much  to  the  burden  of 
her  sorrows  as  she  sat  there,  a  small  and  graceful  figure 
with  a  sad  pathetic  face,  leaning  forward  as  she  sat 
and  gazing  drearily  at  the  carpet,  where  the  sunlight 
crept  in  beneath  the  curtains  from  the  bright  world 
without.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  turning  point  in 
her  existence  had  come,  and  that  this  day  must  decide 
all ;  yet  she  could  not  see  how  it  was  to  be  decided, 
think  of  it  as  she  might.  One  thing  stood  prominent 
in  her  thoughts,  and  she  delighted  to  think  of  it — the 
generosity  of  Charles  Juxon.  From  first  to  last,  from 
the  day  when  she  had  frankly  told  him  her  story  and 
he  had  accepted  it  and  refused  to  let  it  bring  any  dif 
ference  to  his  friendship  for  her,  down  to  this  present 


360  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

time,  when  after  being  basely  attacked  by  her  own 
husband,  he  had  nobly  brought  the  wretch  home  and 
was  caring  for  him  as  for  one  of  his  own  blood — 
through  all  and  in  spite  of  all,  the  squire  had  shown 
the  same  unassuming  but  unfailing  generosity.  She 
asked  herself,  as  she  sat  beside  the  sick  man,  whether 
there  were  many  like  Charles  Juxon  in  the  world. 
There  was  the  vicar,  but  the  case  was  very  different. 
He  too  had  been  kind  and  generous  from  the  first ;  but 
he  had  not  asked  her  to  marry  him — she  blushed  at 
the  thought — he  had  not  loved  her.  If  Charles  Juxon 
loved  her,  his  generosity  to  Goddard  was  all  the  greater. 
She  could  not  tell  whether  she  loved  him,  because 
her  ideas  were  what  the  world  calls  simple,  and  what, 
in  heaven,  would  be  called  good.  Her  husband  was 
alive;  none  the  less  so  because  he  had  been  taken 
away  and  separated  from  her  by  the  law — he  was 
alive,  and  now  was  brought  face  to  face  with  her 
again.  While  he  was  living,  she  did  not  suppose  it 
possible  to  love  another,  for  she  was  very  simple.  She 
said  to  herself  truly  that  she  had  a  very  high  esteem  for 
the  squire  and  that  he  was  the  best  friend  she  had  in 
the  world ;  that  to  lose  him  would  be  the  most  terrible 
of  imaginable  losses ;  that  she  was  deeply  indebted  to 
him,  and  she  even  half  unconsciously  allowed  that  if 
she  were  free  she  might  marry  him.  There  was  no 
harm  in  that,  she  knew  very  well.  She  owed  her  own 
husband  no  longer  either  respect  or  affection,  even 
while  she  still  felt  pity  for  him.  Her  esteem  at  least, 
she  might  give  to  another ;  nay,  she  owed  it,  and  if 
she  had  refused  Charles  Juxon  her  friendship,  she 
would  have  called  herself  the  most  ungrateful  of 
women.  If  ever  man  deserved  respect,  esteem  and 
friendship,  it  was  the  squire. 


XXIII.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  361 

Even  in  the  present  anxiety  she  thought  of  him,  for 
his  conduct  seemed  the  only  bright  spot  in  the  gloom 
of  her  thoughts ;  and  she  sincerely  rejoiced  that  he 
had  escaped  unhurt.  Had  any  harm  come  to  him,  she 
would  have  been,  if  it  were  possible,  more  miserable 
than  she  now  was.  But  he  was  safe  and  sound,  and 
doing  his  best  to  help  her — doing  more  than  she  knew, 
in  fact,  at  that  very  moment.  There  was  at  least 
something  to  be  thankful  for. 

Goddard  stirred  again,  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Mary,"  he  said  faintly, "  they  won't  catch  me  after 
all." 

"  No,  Walter,"  said  she,  humouring  him.  "  Sleep 
quietly,  for  no  one  will  disturb  you." 

"  I  am  going  where  nobody  can  catch  me^  I  am 
dying " 

"  Oh,  Walter  ! "  cried  Mary  Goddard,  "  you  must  not 
speak  like  that.  You  will  be  better  soon.  The  doctor 
is  expected  every  moment." 

"  He  had  better  make  haste,"  said  the  sick  man  with 
something  of  the  roughness  he  had  shown  at  their  first 
meetings.  "  It  is  no  use,  Mary.  I  have  been  thinking 
about  it.  I  have  been  mad  for — for  very  long,  I  am 
sure.  I  want  to  die,  Mary.  Nobody  can  catch  me  if 
I  die — I  shall  be  safe  then.  You  will  be  safe  too— 
that  is  a  great  thing." 

His  voice  had  a  strange  and  meditative  tone  in  it, 
which  frightened  his  wife,  as  she  stood  close  beside 
him.  She  could  not  speak,  for  her  excitement  and 
fear  had  the  mastery  of  her  tongue. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  it — I  am  not  good  for 
much,  now — Mary — I  never  was.  It  will  do  some 
good  if  I  die — just  because  I  shall  be  out  of  the  way. 
It  will  be  the  only  good  thing  I  ever  did  for  you." 


362  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"Oh  Walter,"  cried  his  wife  in  genuine  distress, 
"don't — don't !  Think — you  must  not  die  so — think  of 
— of  the  other  world,  Walter — you  must  not  die  so  ! " 

Goddard  smiled  faintly — scornfully,  his  wife  thought. 

"  I  daresay  I  shall  not  die  till  to-morrow,  or  next 
day — but  I  will  not  live,"  he  said  with  sudden  energy. 
"  Do  you  understand  me,  I  will  not  live  !  Bah ! "  he 
cried,  falling  back  upon  his  pillow,  "  the  grapes  are 
sour — I  can't  live  if  I  would.  Oh  yes,  I  know  all 
about  that — my  sins.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  them.  I 
am  sorry,  Mary.  But  it  is  very  little  good — people 
always  laugh  at — deathbed  repentance " 

He  stopped  and  his  thoughts  seemed  wandering. 
Mary  Goddard  gave  him  something  to  drink  and  tried 
to  calm  him.  But  he  moved  restlessly,  though  feebly. 

"  Softly,  softly,"  he  murmured  again.  "  He  is  com 
ing — close  to  me.  Get  ready — now — no  not  yet,  yes 
— now.  Ugh  ! "  yelled  Goddard,  suddenly  springing 
up,  his  eyes  starting  from  his  head.  "  Ugh !  the  dog 
—oh!" 

"  Hush,  Walter,"  cried  his  wife,  pushing  him  back. 
"  Hush — no  one  will  hurt  you." 

"  What — is  that  you,  Mary  ?  "  asked  the  sick  man, 
trembling  violently.  Then  he  laughed  harshly.  "  I 
was  off  again.  Pshaw  !  I  did  not  really  mean  to  hurt 
him — he  need  not  have  set  that  beast  at  me.  He  did 
not  catch  me  though — Mary,  I  am  going  to  die — will 
you  pray  for  me.  You  are  a  good  woman — somebody 
will  hear  your  prayers,  I  daresay.  Do,  Mary — I  shall 
feel  better  somehow,  though  I  daresay  it  is  very  foolish 
of  me." 

"  No,  Walter — not  foolish,  not  foolish.  Would  you 
like  me  to  call  Mr.  Ambrose  ?  he  is  a  clergyman — he 
is  in  the  house." 


XXIIL  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  363 

"  No,  no.  You  Mary,  you — nobody  will  hear  any 
body  else's  prayers — for  me — for  poor  me " 

"  Try  and  pray  with  me,  Walter,"  said  Mary  God- 
dard,  very  quietly.  She  seemed  to  have  an  unnatural 
strength  given  to  her  in  that  hour  of  distress  and 
horror.  She  knelt  down  by  the  bedside  and  took  his 
wounded  hand  in  hers,  tenderly,  and  she  prayed  aloud 
in  such  words  as  she  could  find. 

Below,  in  the  study,  the  detective  had  just  finished 
telling  his  tale  to  the  squire,  and  the  wheels  of  Doctor 
Longstreet's  dog-cart  ground  upon  the  gravel  outside. 
The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and 
Mr.  Juxon  spoke  first. 

"  That  is  the  doctor,"  said  he.  "  I  will  ask  you  to 
have  patience  for  five  minutes,  Mr.  Booley.  He  will 
give  you  his  opinion.  I  am  still  very  much  shocked 
at  what  you  have  told  me — I  had  no  idea  what  had 
happened." 

"  No — I  supposed  not,"  answered  Mr.  Booley  calmly. 
"  If  you  will  ask  the  medical  man  to  step  in  here  for 
one  moment,  I  will  explain  matters  to  him.  I  don't 
think  he  will  differ  much  from  me." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  the  squire,  leaving  the  room. 
He  went  to  meet  Dr.  Longstreet,  intending  to  warn 
him  of  the  presence  of  Mr.  Booley,  and  meaning  to 
entreat  his  support  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  God- 
dard  in  the  house  until  he  should  be  recovered. 
He  passed  through  the  library  and  exchanged  a 
few  words  with  Mr.  Ambrose,  explaining  that  the 
doctor  had  come.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  were  sitting 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  fireplace  in  huge  chairs, 
with  a  mournful  air  of  resigned  expectation  upon 
their  worthy  faces.  The  detective  remained  alone 
in  the  study. 


364  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

Meanwhile  John  Short  had  refreshed  himself  from 
his  fatigues,  and  came  down  stairs  in  search  of  some 
breakfast.  He  had  recovered  from  his  excitement  and 
was  probably  the  only  one  who  thought  of  eating,  as 
he  was  also  the  one  least  closely  concerned  in  what 
was  occurring.  Instead  of  going  to  the  library  he 
went  to  the  dining-room  and,  seeing  no  one  about, 
entered  the  study  from  the  door  which  on  that  side 
connected  the  two  rooms.  To  his  surprise  he  saw  Mr. 
Booley  standing  before  the  fireplace,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  feet  wide  apart.  He  had  not  the  least 
idea  who  he  was. 

"  Oh  ! "  he  exclaimed,  staring  hard  at  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Booley,  who  took  him  for  the 
physician  whom  he  expected.  "  I  am  George  Booley 
of  the  detective  service.  I  was  expecting  you,  sir. 
There  is  very  little  to  be  said.  My  time,  as  I  told 
Mr.  Juxon,  is  very  valuable.  I  must  have  Goddard 
out  of  the  house  by  to-morrow  afternoon  at  the  latest. 
Now,  doctor,  it  is  of  no  use  your  talking  to  me  about 
fever  and  all  that " 

John  had  stood  with  his  mouth  open,  staring  in 
blank  astonishment  at  the  detective,  unable  to  find 
words  in  which  to  question  the  man.  At  last  he  got 
his  breath. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about  ? "  he 
asked  slowly.  "  Are  you  a  raving  lunatic — or  what 
are  you  ? " 

"Come,  come,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Booley  in  per 
suasive  accents,  "none  of  that  with  me,  you  know. 
If  the  man  must  be  moved — why  he  must,  that  is  all, 
and  you  must  make  it  possible,  somehow." 

"  You  are  crazy  ! "  exclaimed  John.  "  I  am  not  the 
doctor,  to  begin  with " 


xxiii.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  365 

"  Not  the  doctor  ! "  cried  Mr.  Booley.  "  Then  who 
are  you  ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  sure " 

"I  am  John  Short,"  said  John,  quickly,  heedless 
of  the  fact  that  his  name  conveyed  no  idea  whatever 
to  the  mind  of  the  detective.  He  cared  little,  for  he 
began  to  comprehend  the  situation,  and  he  fled  pre 
cipitately  into  the  library,  leaving  Mr.  Booley  alone  to 
wait  for  the  coming  of  the  real  physician.  But  in  the 
library  a  fresh  surprise  awaited  him;  there  he  found 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  seated  in  solemn  silence 
opposite  to  each  other.  He  had  not  suspected  their 
presence  in  the  house,  but  he  was  relieved  to  see  them 
— anything  was  a  relief  at  that  moment. 

"Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "there  is  a 
detective  in  the  next  room  who  means  to  carry  off  that 
poor  man  at  once — as  he  is — sick — dying  perhaps — 
it  must  be  prevented  ! " 

"  A  detective ! "  cried  the  vicar  and  his  wife  in 
the  same  breath. 

"  My  dear  John,"  said  the  vicar  immediately  after 
wards,  "  where  is  he  ?  I  will  reason  with  him." 

"  Augustin,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose  with  extreme 
severity,  "it  is  barbarous.  I  will  go  upstairs.  If  he 
enters  the  room  it  shall  be  across  my  body." 

"Do,  my  dear,"  replied  the  vicar  in  great  excite 
ment,  and  not  precisely  appreciating  the  proposition 
to  which  he  gave  so  willing  an  assent. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  his  wife,  who  had  already 
reached  the  door.  From  which  it  appears  that  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  a  brave  woman.  She  passed  rapidly 
up  the  staircase  to  Goddard's  room,  but  she  paused 
as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  latch.  From  within 
she  could  hear  Mary  Goddard's  voice,  praying  aloud, 
as  she  had  never  heard  any  one  pray  before.  She 


366         A  TALE  OP  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP 

paused  and  listened,  hesitating  to  interrupt  the  un 
happy  lady  in  such  a  moment.  Moreover,  though 
her  goodwill  was  boundless,  she  had  not  any  precise 
idea  how  to  manage  the  defence.  But  as  she  stood 
there,  the  thought  that  the  detective  might  at  any 
moment  follow  her  was  predominant.  The  voice 
within  the  room  paused  for  an  instant  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose  entered,  raising  one  finger  to  her  lips  as 
though  expecting  that  Mary  Goddard  would  speak 
to  her.  But  Mary  was  not  looking,  and  at  first  did 
not  notice  the  intrusion.  She  knelt  by  the  bedside, 
her  face  buried  in  the  coverlet,  her  hands  clasped 
and  clasping  the  sick  man's  wounded  hand. 

Goddard's  face  was  pale  but  not  deathlike,  and 
his  breathing  seemed  regular  and  gentle ;  but  his 
eyes  were  almost  closed  and  he  seemed  not  aware 
that  any  one  had  entered.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  struck 
by  his  appearance  which  was  greatly  changed  since 
she  had  left  him  half  an  hour  earlier,  his  face  purple 
and  his  harsh  moaning  continuing  unceasingly.  She 
said  to  herself  that  he  was  probably  better.  There 
was  all  the  more  reason  for  warning  Mary  Goddard 
of  the  new  danger  that  awaited  him.  She  shut  the 
door  and  locked  it  and  withdrew  the  key.  At  the 
sound  Mary  looked  up — then  rose  to  her  feet  with 
a  sad  look  of  reproach,  as  though  not  wishing  to  be 
disturbed.  But  Mrs.  Ambrose  came  quickly  to  her 
side,  and  glancing  once  at  Goddard,  to  see  whether 
he  was  unconscious,  she  led  her  away  from  the  bed. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  very  kindly,  but  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  excitement,  "I  had  to  come.  There 
are  detectives  in  the  house,  clamouring  to  take  him 
away — but  I  will  protect  you — they  shall  not  do  it." 

Mary  Goddard  started  and  her  eyes  stared  wildly 


xxin.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  367 

at  her  friend.  But  presently  the  look  of  resigned 
sadness  returned,  and  a  faint  and  mournful  smile 
flickered  on  her  lips. 

"  I  think  it  is  all  over,"  she  said.  "  He  is  still 
alive — but  he  will  not  live  till  they  come." 

Then  she  bit  her  lip  tightly,  and  all  the  features 
of  her  face  trembled  a  little.  The  tears  would  rise 
spasmodically,  though  they  were  only  tears  of  pity, 
not  of  love.  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  severe,  the  stern, 
the  eternally  vigilant  Mrs.  Ambrose,  sat  down  by  the 
window ;  she  put  her  arm  about  Mary  Goddard's 
waist  and  took  her  upon  her  knee  as  though  she  had 
been  a  little  child  and  laid  her  head  upon  her  breast, 
comforting  her  as  best  she  could.  And  their  tears 
flowed  down  and  mingled  together,  for  many  minutes. 

But  once  more  the  sick  man's  voice  was  heard; 
both  women  started  to  their  feet  and  went  to  his  side. 

"  Mary  Goddard  !  Mary  Goddard  !  Let  me  in ! " 
he  moaned  faintly. 

"  It  is  I — here  I  am,  "Walter,  dear  Walter — I  am 
with  you/'  answered  Mary,  raising  him  and  putting 
her  arm  about  his  neck,  while  Mrs.  Ambrose  arranged 
the  pillows  behind  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  as 
though  with  a  great  effort. 

Some  one  knocked  softly  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Am 
brose  left  the  bedside  quickly  and  put  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"  Who  is  there  ? "  she  asked,  before  she  opened. 

"  I — John.     Please  let  me  in." 

Mrs.  Ambrose  opened  and  John  entered,  very  pale  ; 
she  locked  the  door  again  after  him.  He  stood  still 
looking  with  astonishment  at  Mrs.  Goddard  who  still 
propped  the  sick  man  in  her  arms  and  hardly  noticed 
him. 


368         A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        CHAP. 

"  Why —  ? "  he  ejaculated  and  then  checked  him 
self,  or  rather  was  checked  by  Mrs.  Ambrose's  look. 
Then  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  whisper. 

"  There  is  an  awful  row  going  on  between  the  doctor 
and  the  detective,"  he  said  hurriedly  under  his  breath. 
"They  are  coming  upstairs  and  the  vicar  and  Mr. 
Juxon  are  trying  to  part  them — I  don't  know  what 
they  are  not  saying  to  each  other " 

"Hush,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "do  not  disturb 
him — he  was  conscious  again  just  now.  This  may 
be  the  crisis — he  may  recover.  The  door  is  locked — 
try  and  prevent  anybody — that  is,  the  detective,  from 
coming  in.  They  will  not  dare  to  break  open  the 
door  in  Mr.  Juxon's  house." 

"  But  why  is  Mrs.  Goddard  here  ? "  asked  John 
unable  to  control  his  curiosity  any  longer.  He  did 
not  mean  that  she  should  hear,  but  as  she  laid 
Goddard's  head  gently  upon  the  pillows,  trying  to 
soothe  him  to  rest  again,  if  rest  it  were,  she  looked 
up  and  met  John's  eyes. 

"  Because  he  is  my  husband,"  said  she  very  quietly. 

John  laid  his  hand  on  Mrs.  Ambrose's  arm  in 
utmost  bewilderment  and  looked  at  her  as  though  to 
ask  if  it  were  true.  She  nodded  gravely.  Before 
John  had  time  to  recover  himself  from  the  shock  of 
the  news,  footsteps  were  heard  outside,  and  the  loud 
altercation  of  angry  voices.  John  Short  leaned  his 
shoulder  against  the  door  and  put  his  foot  against  it 
below,  expecting  an  attack. 


xxiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISII.  369 


CHAPTEE   XXIV. 

WHEN  Mr.  Ambrose  undertook  to  reason  with  the 
detective  he  went  directly  towards  the  study  where 
John  said  the  man  was  waiting.  But  Mr.  Booley 
was  beginning  to  suspect  that  the  doctor  was  not 
coming  to  speak  with  him  as  the  squire  had  promised, 
and  after  hesitating  for  a  few  moments  followed  John 
into  the  library,  determining  to  manage  matters  him 
self.  As  he  opened  the  door  he  met  Mr.  Ambrose 
coming  towards  him,  and  at  the  same  moment  Mr. 
Juxon  and  Doctor  Longstreet  entered  from  the  opposite 
end  of  the  long  room.  The  cheerful  and  active 
physician  was  talking  in  a  rather  excited  tone. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  pretend  to  say 
that  the  man  will  or  will  not  recover.  I  must  see 
him  again.  Things  look  quite  differently  by  daylight, 
and  six  or  seven  hours  may  make  all  the  change  in 
the  world.  To  say  that  he  can  be  moved  to-day  or 
even  to-morrow,  is  absurd.  I  will  stake  my  reputation 
as  a  practitioner — Hulloa  ! " 

The  exclamation  was  elicited  by  Mr.  Booley,  who 
had  pushed  past  Mr.  Ambrose  and  stood  confronting 
the  doctor  with  a  look  which  was  intended  to  ex 
press  a  combination  of  sarcasm,  superior  cunning  and 
authority. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Booley,"  explained  the  squire.  "  Doctor 
2  B 


370  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

Longstreet  will  tell  you  what  he  has  been  telling  me," 
he  added  turning  to  the  detective. 

"I  must  see  this  man  instantly,"  said  the  latter 
somewhat  roughly.  "I  believe  I  am  being  trifled 
with,  and  I  will  not  submit  to  it.  No,  sir,  I  will  not 
be  trifled  with,  I  assure  you !  I  must  see  this  man 
at  once.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  identify  him." 

"And  I  say,"  said  Doctor  Longstreet  with  equal 
firmness,  "  that  I  must  see  him  first,  in  order  to  judge 
whether  you  can  see  him  or  not " 

"  It  is  for  me  to  judge  of  that,"  returned  Mr.  Booley, 
with  more  haste  than  logic. 

"  After  you  have  seen  him,  you  cannot  judge 
whether  you  ought  to  see  him  or  not,"  retorted  Doctor 
Longstreet  growing  red  in  the  face.  The  detective 
attempted  to  push  past  him.  At  this  moment  John 
Short  hastily  left  the  room  and  fled  upstairs  to  warn 
Mrs.  Ambrose  of  what  was  happening. 

"  Eeally,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  making  a  vain  attempt 
to  stop  the  course  of  events,  "  this  is  very  unwarrant 
able." 

"  Unwarrantable  ! "  cried  Mr.  Booley.  "  Unwarrant 
able,  indeed !  I  have  the  warrant  in  my  pocket.  Mr. 
Juxon,  sir,  I  fear  I  must  insist." 

"  Permit  me,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  planting  his  square 
and  sturdy  form  between  the  door  and  the  detective. 
"  You  may  certainly  insist,  but  you  must  begin  by 
listening  to  reason." 

Charles   Juxon  had  been  accustomed  to  command 

i 

others  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  and  though  he 
was  generally  the  most  unobtrusive  and  gentle  of  men, 
when  he  raised  his  voice  in  a  tone  of  authority  his 
words  carried  weight.  His  blue  eyes  stared  hard  at 
Mr.  Booley,  and  there  was  something  imposing  in  his 


xxiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  371 

square  head — even  in  the  unruffled  smoothness  of  his 
brown  hair.  Mr.  Booley  paused  and  discontentedly 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"  Well  ? "  he  said. 

"Simply  this,"  answered  the  squire.  "You  may 
accompany  us  to  the  door  of  the  room ;  you  may  wait 
with  me,  while  Doctor  Longstreet  goes  in  to  look  at  the 
patient.  If  the  man  is  unconscious  you  may  go  in  and 
see  him.  If  he  chances  to  be  in  a  lucid  interval,  you 
must  wait  until  he  is  unconscious  again.  It  will  not  be 
long.  That  is  perfectly  reasonable." 

"  Perfectly,"  echoed  Mr.  Ambrose,  biting  his  long 
upper  lip  and  glaring  as  fiercely  at  Mr.  Booley  as 
though  he  had  said  it  all  himself. 

"Absolutely  reasonable,"  added  Doctor  Longstreet. 

"Well,  we  will  try  it,"  said  the  detective  moodily. 
"  But  I  warn  you  I  will  not  be  trifled  with." 

"  Nobody  is  trifling  with  you,"  answered  the  squire 
coldly.  "  This  way  if  you  please."  And  he  forthwith 
led  the  way  upstairs,  followed  by  Mr.  Booley,  the 
physician  and  the  vicar. 

Before  they  reached  the  door,  however,  the  discus 
sion  broke  out  again.  Mr.  Booley  had  been  held  in 
check  for  a  few  moments  by  Mr.  Juxon's  determined 
manner,  but  as  he  followed  the  squire  he  began  to 
regret  that  he  had  yielded  so  far  and  he  made  a  fresh 
assertion  of  his  rights. 

"  I  cannot  see  why  you  want  to  keep  me  outside," 
he  said.  "  What  difference  can  it  make,  I  should  like 
to  know  ? " 

"  You  will  have  to  take  my  word  for  it  that  it  does 
make  a  difference,"  said  the  doctor,  testily.  "  If  you 
frighten  the  man,  he  will  die.  Now  then,  here  we 


372  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

"  I  don't  like  your  tone,  sir,"  said  Booley  angrily, 
again  trying  to  push  past  the  physician.  "  I  think  I 
must  insist,  after  all.  I  will  go  in  with  you — I  tell 
you  I  will,  sir — don't  stop  me." 

Doctor  Longstreet,  who  was  fifteen  or  twenty  years 
older  than  the  detective  but  still  strong  and  active, 
gripped  his  arm  quickly,  and  held  him  back. 

"  If  you  go  into  that  room  without  my  permission, 
and  if  the  man  dies  of  fright,  I  will  have  an  action 
brought  against  you  for  manslaughter,"  he  said  in  a 
loud  voice. 

"  And  I  will  support  it,"  said  the  squire.  "  I  am 
justice  of  the  peace  here,  and  what  is  more,  I  am  in 
my  own  house.  Do  not  think  your  position  will  pro 
tect  you." 

Again  Mr.  Juxon's  authoritative  tone  checked  the 
detective,  who  drew  back,  making  some  angry  retort 
which  no  one  heard.  The  squire  tried  the  door  and 
finding  it  locked,  knocked  softly,  not  realising  that 
every  word  of  the  altercation  had  been  heard  within. 

"  Who  is  there  ? "  asked  John,  who  though  he  had 
heard  all  that  had  been  said  was  uncertain  of  the 
issue. 

"  Let  in  Doctor  Longstreet,"  said  the  squire's  voice. 

But  meanwhile  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Mary  Goddard 
were  standing  on  each  side  of  the  sick  man.  He  must 
have  heard  the  noises  outside,  and  they  conveyed  some 
impression  to  his  brain. 

"Mary,  Mary  ! "  he  groaned  indistinctly.  "  Save  me 
— they  are  coming — I  cannot  get  away — softly,  he  is 
coming — now — I  shall  just  catch  him  as  he  goes  by — 
Ugh  !  that  dog — oh !  oh  ! " 

With  a  wild  shriek,  the  wretched  man  sprang  up, 
upon  his  knees,  his  eyes  starting  out,  his  face  transfigured 


xxiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  373 

with  horror.  For  one  instant  he  remained  thus,  half- 
supported  by  the  two  terror-struck  women ;  then  with 
a  groan  his  head  drooped  forward  upon  his  breast  and 
he  fell  back  heavily  upon  the  pillows,  breathing  still 
but  quite  unconscious. 

Doctor  Longstreet  entered  at  that  moment  and  ran 
to  his  side.  But  when  he  saw  him  he  paused.  Even 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  white  with  horror,  and  Mary  God- 
dard  stood  motionless,  staring  down  at  her  hus 
band,  her  hands  gripping  the  disordered  coverlet 
convulsively. 

Mr.  Juxon  had  entered,  too,  while  Mr.  Ambrose 
remained  outside  with  the  detective,  who  had  been 
frightened  into  submission  by  the  physician's  last 
threat.  The  squire  saw  what  was  happening  and 
paced  the  room  in  the  greatest  agitation,  wringing  his 
hands  together  and  biting  his  lips.  John  had  closed 
the  door  and  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  looked 
at  Goddard's  face.  After  a  pause,  Doctor  Longstreet 
spoke. 

"  We  might  possibly  restore  him  to  consciousness 
for  a  moment " 

"  Don't ! ! "  cried  Mary  Goddard,  starting  as  though 
some  one  had  struck  her.  "  That  is — "  she  added 
quickly,  in  broken  tones,  "  unless  he  can  live  ! " 

"  No,"  answered  the  physician,  gravely,  but  looking 
hard  at  the  unhappy  woman.  "  He  is  dying." 

Goddard's  staring  eyes  were  glazed  and  white. 
Twice  and  three  times  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  then 
lay  quite  still.  It  was  all  over.  Mary  gazed  at  his 
dead  face  for  one  instant,  then  a  faint  smile  parted  her 
lips  :  she  raised  one  hand  to  her  forehead  as  though 
dazed. 

"  He  is  safe  now,"  she  murmured  very  faintly.     Hur 


374  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

limbs  relaxed  suddenly,  and  she  fell  straight  back 
wards.  Charles  Juxon,  who  was  watching  her,  sprang 
forward  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  Then  he  bore 
her  from  the  room,  swiftly,  while  John  Short  who  was 
as  white  and  speechless  as  the  rest  opened  the  door. 

"  You  may  go  in  now,"  said  Juxon  as  he  passed 
Booley  and  Mr.  Ambrose  in  the  passage,  with  his  bur 
den  in  his  arms.  A  few  steps  farther  on  he  met 
Holmes  the  butler,  who  carried  a  telegram  on  a  salver. 

"For  Mr.  Short,  sir,"  said  the  impassive  servant, 
not  appearing  to  notice  anything  strange  in  the  fact 
that  his  master  was  carrying  the  inanimate  body  of 
Mary  Goddard. 

"  He  is  in  there — go  in,"  said  Juxon  hurriedly  as 
he  went  on  his  way. 

The  detective  and  the  vicar  had  already  entered  the 
room  where  the  dead  convict  was  lying.  All  stood 
around  the  bed,  gazing  at  his  pale  face  as  he  lay. 

"A  telegram  for  Mr.  Short,"  said  Holmes  from  the 
door.  John  started  and  took  the  despatch  from  the 
butler's  hands.  He  hastily  tore  it  open,  glanced  at 
the  contents  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  Every  one 
looked  round. 

"  What  is  it,  John  ? "  whispered  the  vicar,  who  was 
nearest  to  him. 

"  Oh — nothing.  I  am  first  in  the  Tripos,  that  is 
all,"  answered  John  very  simply,  as  though  it  were  not 
a  matter  of  the  least  consequence. 

Through  all  those  months  of  untiring  labour,  through 
privation  and  anxiety,  through  days  of  weariness  and 
nights  of  study,  he  had  looked  forward  to  the  triumph, 
often  doubting  but  never  despairing.  But  he  had 
little  guessed  that  the  news  of  victory  would  reach 
him  at  such  a  moment.  It  was  nothing,  he  said ;  and 


xxiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  375 

indeed  as  he  stood  with  the  group  of  pale  and  awe 
struck  spectators  by  the  dead  man's  bed,  he  felt  that 
the  greatest  thing  which  had  ever  happened  to  him 
was  as  nothing  compared  with  the  tragedy  of  which  he 
had  witnessed  the  last  act. 

It  was  all  over.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said ;  the  convict  had  escaped  the  law  in  the  end,  at 
the  very  moment  when  the  hand  of  the  law  was  upon 
him.  Thomas  Eeid,  the  conservative  sexton,  buried 
him  "  four  by  six  by  two,"  grumbling  at  the  parish 
depth  as  of  yore,  and  a  simple  stone  cross  marked  his 
nameless  grave.  There  it  stands  to  this  day  in  the 
churchyard  of  Billingsfield,  Essex,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
ancient  abbey. 

All  these  things  happened  a  long  time  ago,  accord 
ing  to  Billingsfield  reckoning,  but  the  story  of  the  tramp 
who  attacked  Squire  Juxon  and  was  pulled  down  by 
the  bloodhound  is  still  told  by  the  villagers,  and  Mr. 
Gall,  being  once  in  good  cheer,  vaguely  hinted  that  he 
knew  who  the  tramp  was;  but  from  the  singular 
reticence  he  has  always  shown  in  the  matter,  and  from 
the  prosperity  which  has  attended  his  constabulary 
career,  it  may  well  be  believed  that  he  has  a  life 
interest  in  keeping  his  counsel.  Indeed  as  it  is  nearly 
ten  years  since  Mr.  Eeid  buried  the  poor  tramp,  it  is 
possible  that  Mr.  Gall's  memory  may  be  already  fail 
ing  in  regard  to  events  which  occurred  at  so  remote 
a  date. 

It  was  but  an  incident,  though  it  was  perhaps  the 
only  incident  of  any  interest  which  ever  occurred  in 
Billingsfield;  but  until  it  reached  its  termination  it 
agitated  the  lives  of  the  quiet  people  at  the  vicarage, 
at  the  cottage  and  at  the  Hall  as  violently  as  human 


376  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  CHAP. 

nature  can  be  moved.  It  was  long,  too,  before  those 
who  had  witnessed  the  scene  of  Goddard's  death  could 
shake  off  the  impression  of  those  awful  last  moments. 
Yet  time  does  all  things  wonderful  and  in  the  course 
of  not  many  months  there  remained  of  Goddard's 
memory  only  a  great  sense  of  relief  that  he  was  no 
longer  alive.  Mary  Goddard,  indeed,  was  very  ill  for 
a  long  time;  and  but  for  Mrs.  Ambrose's  tender  care 
of  her,  might  have  followed  her  husband  within  a  few 
weeks  of  his  death.  But  the  good  lady  never  left  her, 
until  she  was  herself  again^-absolutely  herself,  saving 
that  as  time  passed  and  her  deep  wounds  healed  her 
sorrows  were  forgotten,  and  she  seemed  to  bloom  out 
into  a  second  youth. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  within  two  years  Charles 
Juxon  once  more  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  She 
hesitated  long — fully  half  an  hour,  the  squire  thought ; 
but  in  the  end  she  put  out  her  small  hand  and  laid  it 
in  his,  and  thanked  God  that  a  man  so  generous  and 
true,  and  whom  she  so  honestly  loved,  was  to  be  her 
husband  as  well  as  her  friend  and  protector.  Charles 
James  Juxon  smoothed  his  hair  with  his  other  hand, 
and  his  blue  eyes  were  a  little  moistened. 

"  God  bless  you,  Mary,"  he  said ;  and  that  was  all. 

Then  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose  married  them 
in  the  church  of  Saint  Mary's,  between  Christmas  and 
New  Year's  Day ;  and  the  wedding-party  consisted  of 
Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Eleanor  Goddard  and  John  Short, 
Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  And  again 
years  passed  by,  and  Nellie  grew  in  beauty  as  John 
grew  in  reputation ;  and  Nellie  had  both  brothers  and 
sisters,  as  she  had  longed  to  have,  and  to  her,  their 
father  was  as  her  own ;  so  that  there  was  much  har 
mony  and  peace  and  goodwill  towards  men  in  Billings- 


xxiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAttlSH.  377 

field  Hall.  John  came  often  and  stayed  long,  and  was 
ever  welcome ;  for  though  Mary  Goddard's  youth 
returned  with  the  daffodils  and  the  roses  of  the  first 
spring  after  Walter's  death,  John's  fleeting  passion 
returned  not,  and  perhaps  its  place  was  better  taken. 
Year  by  year,  as  he  came  to  refresh  himself  from  hard 
work  with  a  breath  of  the  country  air,  he  saw  the 
little  girl  grow  to  the  young  maiden  of  sixteen,  and 
he  saw  her  beauty  ripen  again  to  the  fulness  of 
womanhood;  and  at  last,  when  she  was  one  and 
twenty  years  of  age  he  in  his  turn  put  out  his  hand 
and  asked  her  to  take  him — which  she  did,  for  better 
or  worse,  but  to  all  appearances  for  better.  For  John 
Short  had  prospered  mightily  in  the  world,  and  had 
come  to  think  his  first  great  success  as  very  small  and 
insignificant  as  compared  with  what  he  had  done 
since.  But  his  old  simplicity  was  in  him  yet,  and 
was  the  cause  of  much  of  his  prosperity,  as  it  generally 
is  when  it  is  found  together  with  plenty  of  brains.  It 
was  doubtless  because  he  was  so  very  simple  that 
when  he  found  that  he  loved  Eleanor  Goddard  he  did 
not  hesitate  to  ask  the  convict's  daughter  to  be  his 
wife.  His  interview  with  Mr.  Juxon  was  characteristic. 

"  You  know  what  you  are  doing,  John  ?  "  asked  the 
squire.  He  always  called  him  John,  now. 

"  Perfectly,"  replied  the  scholar,  "  I  am  doing  pre 
cisely  what  my  betters  have  done  before  me  with  such 
admirable  result." 

"  Betters  ? " 

"You.  You  knew  about  it  all  and  you  married 
her  mother.  I  know  all  about  it,  and  I  wish  to  marry 
herself." 

"  You  know  that  she  never  heard  the  story  ?  " 

"Yes.     She  never  shall." 


378  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH.  CHAP. 

"No,  John — she  never  must.  Well,  all  good  go 
with  you." 

So  Charles  Juxon  gave  his  consent.  And  Mary 
Juxon  consented  too ;  but  for  the  first  time  in  many 
years  the  tears  rose  again  to  her  eyes,  and  she  laid  her 
hand  on  John's  arm,  as  they  walked  together  in  the 
park. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  said,  "  do  you  think  it  is  right — 
for  you  yourself  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  think  so,"  quoth  John  stoutly. 

"You  John — with  your  reputation,  your  success, 
with  the  whole  world  at  your  feet — you  ought  not  to 
marry  the  daughter  of — of  such  a  man." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Juxon,"  said  John  Short,  "is  she 
not  your  daughter  as  well  as  his  ?  Pray,  pray  do  not 
mention  that  objection.  I  assure  you  I  have  thought 
it  all  over.  There  is  really  nothing  more  to  be  said, 
which  I  have  not  said  to  myself.  Dear  Mrs.  Juxon — 
do  say  Yes  !  " 

"You  are  very  generous,  John,  as  well  as  great," 
she  answered  looking  up  to  his  face.  "Well — I  have 
nothing  to  say.  You  must  do  as  you  think  best.  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  kind  to  Nellie,  for  I  have  known 
you  for  ten  years — you  may  tell  her  I  am  very  glad 

— "  she  stopped,  her  eyes  brimming  over  with  tears. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  angry  I  was  once,  when 
you  told  me  to  go  and  talk  to  Nellie?"  said  John. 
"  It  was  just  here,  too " 

Mary  Juxon  laughed  happily  and  brushed  the  tears 
from  her  eyes.  So  it  was  all  settled. 

Once  more  the  Eeverend  Augustin  Ambrose  united 
two  loving  hearts  before  the  altar  of  Saint  Mary's.  He 
was  well  stricken  in  years,  ^,nd  his  hair  and  beard  were 
very  white.  Mrs.  Ambrose  also  grew  more  imposing 


xxiv.  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  379 

with  each  succeeding  season,  but  her  face  was  softer  than 
of  old,  and  her  voice  more  gentle.  For  the  sorrow  and 
suffering  of  a  few  days  had  drawn  together  the  hearts 
of  all  those  good  people  with  strong  bands,  and  a  deep 
affection  had  sprung  up  between  them  all.  The  good 
old  lady  felt  as  though  Mary  Juxon  were  her  daughter 
— Mary  Juxon,  by  whom  she  had  stood  in  the  moment 
of  direst  trial  and  terror,  whom  she  had  tended  in  ill 
ness  and  cheered  in  recovery.  And  the  younger 
woman's  heart  had  gone  out  towards  her,  feeling  how 
good  a  thing  it  is  to  find  a  friend  in  need,  and  learning 
to  value  in  her  happiness  the  wealth  of  human  kind 
ness  she  had  found  in  her  adversity. 

They  are  like  one  family,  now,  having  a  common 
past,  a  common  present,  and  a  common  future,  and 
there  is  no  dissension  among  them.  Honest  and  loyal 
men  and  women  may  meet  day  after  day,  and  join 
hands  and  exchange  greetings,  without  becoming  firm 
friends,  for  the  very  reason  that  they  have  no  need  of 
each  other.  But  if  the  storm  of  a  great  sorrow  breaks 
among  them  and  they  call  out  to  each  other  for  help, 
and  bear  the  brunt  of  the  weather  hand  in  hand,  the 
seed  of  a  deeper  affection  is  brought  into  their  midst; 
and  when  the  tempest  is  past  the  sweet  flower  of 
friendship  springs  up  in  the  moistened  furrows  of 
their  lives. 

So  those  good  people  in  the  lonely  parish  of 
Billingsfield  gathered  round  Mary  Goddard,  as  they 
called  her  then,  and  round  poor  little  Nellie,  and 
did  their  best  to  protect  the  mother  and  the  child 
from  harm  and  undeserved  suffering;  and  afterwards, 
when  it  was  all.  over,  and  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  feared  in  the  future,  they  looked  into  each  other's 
faces'  and  felt  that  they  were  become  as  brothers  and 


380  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.         CHAP.  xxiv. 

sisters,  and  that  so  long  as  they  should  live — may  it 
be  long  indeed ! — there  was  a  bond  between  them 
which  could  never  be  broken.  So  it  was  that  Mrs. 
Ambrose's  face  softened  and  her  voice  was  less  severe 
than  it  had  been. 

Mary  Juxon  is  the  happiest  of  women ;  happy  in 
her  husband,  in  her  eldest  daughter,  in  John  Short  and 
in  the  little  children  with  bright  faces  and  ringing 
voices  who  nestle  at  her  knee  or  climb  over  the  sturdy 
sailor-squire,  and  pull  his  great  beard  and  make  him 
laugh.  They  will  never  know,  any  more  than  Nellie 
knew,  all  that  their  mother  suffered  ;  and  as  she  looks 
upon  them  and  strokes  their  long  fair  hair  and  listens 
to  their  laughter,  she  says  to  herself  that  it  was  per 
haps  almost  worth  while  to  have  been  dragged  down 
towards  the  depths  of  shame  for  the  sake  of  at  last 
enjoying  such  pride  and  glory  of  happy  motherhood. 


THE  END. 


Printed  by  R.  &  R.  CLARK,  Edinburgh. 


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